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Engraved bv  G.B.On* 


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THE 


OF 


SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


i^MW^m  m©©^mi 


Eiit  Mtnmivm  of  fHentorfi. 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 


-Hoc  est 


Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui. — Mart. 


Oh  could  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page, 
Enlighten  climes  and  mould  a  future  age ; 
There  as  it  glow'd,  with  noblest  frenzy  fraught, 
Dispense  the  treasures  of  exalted  thought ; 
To  Virtue  wake  the  pulses  of  the  heart, 
And  bid  the  tear  of  emulation  start ! 
Oh  could  it  still,  through  each  succeeding  year, 
My  life,  my  manners,  and  my  name  endear ; 
And,  when  the  poet  sleeps  in  silent  dust. 
Still  hold  communion  with  the  wise  and  jitst ! — 
Yet  should  this  Verse,  my  leisure's  best  resource, 
When  through  the  world  it  steals  its  secret  course, 
Revive  but  once  a  generous  wish  supprest. 
Chase  but  a  sigh,  or  charm  a  care  to  rest ; 
In  one  good  deed  a  fleeting  hour  employ, 
Or  flush  one  faded  cheek  with  honest  joy  ; 
Blest  were  my  lines,  though  limited  their  sphere, 
Though  short  their  date,  as  his  who  traced  them  here. 

1793. 


PART  I. 


Dolce  sentier, 

Colle,  che  mi  piacesti, 

Ov'  ancor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mena; 
Ben  riconosco  in  voi  1'  usate  forme, 
Non,  lasso,  in  me. 

Petrarch. 


ANALYSIS. 

The  Poem  begins  with  the  description  of  an  obscure 
village,  and  of  the  pleasing  melancholy  which  it  excites 
on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence.  This  mixed 
sensation  is  an  effect  of  the  memory.  From  an  effect 
we  naturally  ascend  to  the  cause ;  and  the  subject 
proposed  is  then  unfolded,  with  an  investigation  of 
the  nature  and  leading  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succes- 
sion, and  introduce  each  other  with  a  certain  deanree  of 


regularit)-.  They  are  sometimes  excited  by  sensible 
objects,  and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation  of  the 
mind.  Of  the  former  species  is  most  probably  the  mera- 
oiy  of  brutes;  and  its  many  soiuces  of  pleasure  to  them, 
as  well  as  to  us,  are  considered  in  the  first  part.  The 
latter  is  the  most  perfect  degree  of  memory,  and  forms 
the  subject  of  the  second. 

WTien  ideas  have  any  relation  whatever,  they  are  at- 
tractive of  each  other  in  the  mind ;  and  the  perception 
of  any  object  naturally  leads  to  the  idea  of  another, 
which  was  connected  with  it  either  in  time  or  place,  or 
which  can  be  compared  or  contrasted  \\-ith  it.  Hence 
arises  our  attachment  to  inanimate  objects ;  hence  also, 
in  some  degree,  the  love  of  our  country,  and  the  emo- 
tion with  which  we  contemplate  the  celebrated  scenes 
of  antiquity.  Hence  a  picture  directs  our  thoughts  to 
the  original :  and,  as  cold  and  darkness  suggest  forcibly 
the  ideas  of  heat  and  light,  he,  who  feels  the  infirmities 
of  age,  dwells  most  on  whatever  reminds  liim  of  the 
vigor  and  vivacit)^  of  his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  employed,  is  no  less 
conducive  to  virtue  than  to  happiness ;  and,  as  such, 
it  frequently  discovers  itself  in  the  most  tumidtuous 
scenes  of  life.  It  addresses  our  finer  feelings,  and  gives 
exercise  to  every  mild  and  generous  propensity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  animated 
nature  ;  and  its  effects  are  pecuharly  striking  in  the 
domestic  tribes. 


'Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green. 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene : 
StilFd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock'd  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 

9 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All,  all  are  fled ',  yet  still  I  linger  here ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ? 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arch'd  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The   mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-growTi 

court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport. 
When  natvu-e  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state. 
The  chair  of  justice  held  tlie  grave  debate. 

Now  stain'd  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly  hung. 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung  ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 
And  tum'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  fancy  flutter'd  on  her  Avildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain'd  each  wondering  ear  ; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  Ave  wander'd  in  the  wood, 
Or  view'd  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood : 
Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murder'd  by  ruffian  hands.  \%  hen  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities!  whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,  ere  register'd  on  high ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground, 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend. 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  ibnd  delight. 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight; 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  t'ne  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  imfolds  its  many-color'd  chart; 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart ; 
That  faithful  monitor  't  was  heaven  to  hear, 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near  • 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime, 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought. 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensive  thought ; 
Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust ;      [dust, 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  thro'  their 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast, 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  I 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring! 
How  oft  inscribed,  Avith  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  touch  of  Time  ; 


Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer  shade , 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  red-breast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene  , 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm. 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
^Vhat  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
^^^len  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight  steals 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd 
Glance  on  the  darken'd  mirror  of  the  mind. 
The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  grey 
Just  fells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn. 
Quickening  ray  truant  feet  across  the  lawn  : 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear,  (1) 
Some  little  friendship  ibrm'd  and  cherish'd  here , 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsey's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed  ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  \A-ith  silent  a\Ve, 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore. 
Imps  in  the  bam  with  mousing  owlet  bred. 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed  ;  [shade. 

Whose  dark  eyes  flash'd  through  locks  of  blackest 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bay'd: — 
And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  mutter'd  call. 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew. 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 

fears. 
To  learn  the  color  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flush'd  my  breast; 
This  truth  once  known — ^To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-grey) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt. 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt.  , 

As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more,  [live !" 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  such  goodness 
'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 

But  hark!  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes!  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  eflface. 

On  yon  grey  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more. 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring. 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 
Alas !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

10 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald  light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  liis  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  tiim'd  the  greensward  with  his  spade, 
He  lecluied  every  youth  that  roimd  him  play'd ; 
And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay. 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush!  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  hfe!  mstructors  of  my  youth! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  Truth  ; 
Whose  every  word  enhghten'd  and  endear'd  ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered  ; 
In  Friendship's  silent  register  ye  Uve, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

— But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined ! 

Ethereal  Power !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recalfst  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good  ; 
Blest  Memory,  hail!  Oh  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  living  hues. 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll. 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Luli'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain. 
Our  thoughts  are  link'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  w  hat  myriads  rise !  (2) 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies ! 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense. 
Brightens  or  fades ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell ; 
Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires, 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  sonrce 
"Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course, 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 
WTiat  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assign'd ! 
"What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind ! 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  w-rought  ; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer. 
Turns  on  the  neighboring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  with  sheep, 
The   church-ya^    yews   round   which   his   fathers 

sleep;  (df 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before. 
And,  with  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  their  strange  expanse  of  sail ; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu,  (4) 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carv^ed  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed. 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 


Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast. 
Long  watch'd  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast  j 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 
,  So  Scotia's  Queen,  (5)  as  slowly  davvn'd  the  day, 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless'd  the  beacon's  glimmerhig  height 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light  ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray'd 
Each  castled  clitF,  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  louch'd  the  talisman's  resistless  spring. 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing 
Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire,  (6) 
As  siunmer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  (7)  prompts  the  Patriot's 

sigh; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  yoimg  Foscari,  (8)  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey. 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  liis  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more. 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart :  (9) 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance  through  the  gloom,  and  Avhisper  in  the  gale  ,• 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laiu-a  dwell. 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell.  (10) 
'T  was  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb  (11) 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom : 
So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time,  (12 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honor'd  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  Sage  of  SjTacuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
WTiere  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  hjm  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  ? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep,  (13) " 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep  : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

"What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace ; 
What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside. 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Condemn'd  to  climb  his  mountain-cliflS  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild  (14) 
^Vhich  on  those  chfis  his  infant  hours  beguiled, 

11 


4 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Melts  at  the  long-lost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
And  sinks  a  martyr  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  or  camps  dissolve  the  charm : 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm ;  (15) 
Why  great  Navarre,  (16)  when  France  and  freedom 

bled, 
Sought  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest-shed. 
When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind  (17) 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  world  resign'd, 
Say  why  we  trace  the  labors  of  his  spade, 
In  calm  Salona's  philosophic  shade. 
Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a  throne,  (18) 
To  muse  with  monks  unletter"d  and  unknown, 
Wliat  from  his  soul  the  parting  tribute  drew  ? 
What  claim'd  the  sorrows  of  a  last  adieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppress'd. 

Undarap'd  by  time,  the  generous  Instinct  glows 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows  ,- 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest. 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail : — 
And  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale. 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  soimd. 
And  with  young  vigor  wheels  the  pasture  round. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale  ; 
Oft  have  his  hps  the  grateful  tribute  breathed. 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeathed. 
WTien  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declined. 
And  on  the  scathed  oak  warr'd  the  winter-wind  ; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  t\\  inkhng  ray 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way ; 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  ram-drops  told  the  tempest  near  ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry,  (19) 
The  track  that  shunn'd  his  sad,  inquiring  eye  ; 
And  win  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  v.armth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm'd  hand  the  careless  rein  resign'd. 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanish'd  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  alter'd  form 
Has  borne  the  Ijuffet  of  the  mountain-storm : 
And  who  \A-ill  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog 's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  liim  from  the  door. 
Though  all,  that  knew  him,  know  his  fiice  no  more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each. 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech. — 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  w  atchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts  of  heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of  earth, 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard  IVIisfortune's  sacred  grave. 
Will  firm  Fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  ? 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her  flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and  nations  bless'd  the  sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise, 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies  : — 
'T  is  vain  !  through  Ether's  pathless  wilds  she  goes. 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 

Sweet  bird!  thy  truth  shall  Haarlem's  walls  at- 
test, (20) 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief. 
With  looks  that  ask'd,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief, 


Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  Valor  clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'T  was  lliine  to  animate  her  closing  eye ; 
Alas  !  't  was  thine  perchance  the  first  to  die, 
Crush'd  by  her  meagre  hand,  when  welcomed  froi 

the  sky. 
Hark!  the  bee  (21)  winds  her  small  but  mellow 

horn. 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  mom. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  bu-sy  course. 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'T  is  noon,  't  is  night.     That  eye  so  fmely  wrought. 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  ! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  varied  scents,  that  charm'd  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  Memory,  hail  I  thy  miiversal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  Bemg's  glorious  chain. 


PART  II. 


Delle  cose  custode,  e  dispensiera. 


Tasso. 


ANALYSIS. 


The  Memory  has  liitherto  acted  only  in  subservi 
ence  to  the  senses,  and  so  far  man  is  not  eminently 
distinguished  from  other  animals:  but,  with  respect 
to  man,  she  has  a  higher  province ;  and  is  often  busily 
employed,  when  excited  by  no  external  cause  what- 
ever. She  preserves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art 
and  science,  history  and  philosophy.  She  colors  all 
the  prospects  of  life  :  for  "  we  can  only  anticipate  the 
future,  by  concluding  what  is  possible  from  what  is 
past."  On  her  agency  depends  every  effusion  of  the 
Fancy,  who  with  the  boldest  effort  can  only  com- 
pomid  or  transpose,  augment  or  diminish,  tlie  mate- 
rials which  she  has  collected. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided, 
and  sorrow  has  softened  mto  melancholy,  she  amuses 
with  a  retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspires 
that  noble  confidence  which  results  from  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  acted  well.  When  sleep  has  suspended 
the  organs  of  sense  from  their  oflice,  she  not  only  sup- 
plies the  mind  with  images,  but  assists  in  their  combi- 
nation. And  even  in  madness  itself",  when  the  soul  is 
resigned  over  to  the  tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagi- 
nation, she  re^■ives  past  perceptions,  and  awakens  that 
train  of  thought  which  was  formerly  most  familiar., 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  df  >die 
brighter  passages  of  life.  Events,  11$  most  distressing 
in  their  immediate  consequences,  are  often  cherished 
in  remembrance  with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  wliich  is  not  very  favorable 
to  the  indulgence  of  tliis  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and 
well-regulated  mind  that  the  Meraor}'  is  most  perfect; 
and  solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this 
sentiment  is  introduced  a  Tale  illustrative  of  her  in- 
fluence in  solitude,  sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  sub- 
ject having  now  been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  ;3 
man  and  the  animal  world,  the  Poem  concludes  with 

12 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


5 


a  conjecture  that  superior  beings  are  blest  wdth  a 
nobler  exercise  of  this  faculty. 


Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  Time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy-haunts  of  long-lost  hours. 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  Tliee  impart 
What  charms  in  Genius,  and  refmes  in  Art ; 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  Science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal-lamp. 

The  friends  of  Reason,  and  the  guides  of  Youth, 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  Truth ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  preceptive  w-isdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  piu-e  in  thought ; 
These  still  exist,  (22)  by  Thee  to  Fame  consign'd, 
Still  speak  and  act,  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  Thee  sweet  Hope  her  airy  coloruag  draws  ; 
And  Fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  Thee  that  bosom-spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  Virtue,  tranquil  Virtue,  knows. 

When  Joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening-ray, 
And  Hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiMng  prospect  close. 
Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows : 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  hght. 

The  beauteous  maid,  who  bids  the  world  adieu, 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear,  familiar  face : 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper-bell 
Bursts  through  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent-cell. 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive, 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive  ; 
The  whisper'd  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong, 
Weave  the  light  dance  and  swell  the  choral  song ; 
With  rapt  ear  drink  the  enchanting  serenade. 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonhght-glade. 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh. 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  Time  has  calm'd  the  ruffled  breast. 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave. 
Is  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail. 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  eveiy  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fix'd  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare, 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair! 
But  pause  not  then — beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  view  the  captive  barter'd  as  a  slave ! 
Crush'd  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds, 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  even  here,  with  pleasures  long  resign'd 
Lo!  Memory  bursts  the  twdhght  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul, 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control ; 
And  o'er  Futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'T  is  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more, 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shore ; 

B 


Beneath  his  plantam's  ancient  shade,  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew ; 
Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  evenmg  blows. 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah !  why  should  Virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  Fate  ? 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create! 
A  httle  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day. 
Nor  wreok'd  by  storms,  nor  moulder'd  by  decay; 
A  world,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  sunshine  blest, 
The  home  of  Happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
Wlien  Sleep  has  lock'd  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  Judgment  has  his  throne  resign'd 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind ; 
And,  as  warm  Fancy's  bright  Elysium  glows. 
From  Her  each  image  springs,  each  color  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  the  immortal  friend ! 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  Innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  Silence  given. 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  roimd 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 
From  his  green  vale  and  shelter'd  cabin  hies. 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  \-isit  foreign  skies ; 
Though  far  below  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away, 
Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rock'd  to  sleep, 
Wliile  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep, 
With  Memory's  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees. 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub-voices  call, 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  Madness  dwell? 


5ay, 


can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 


Each  fiery  flight  on  Frenzy's  wmg  restram. 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fever'd  brain? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  w^hich  scarce  a  gleam  supplies, 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  Genius  hes! 
He,  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thought ; 
And  round,  in  colors  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  e\er  fair,  creations  ever  new! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatch'd  the  wreath  of  Fame, 
The  spectre  Poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  withering  scowl  she  wore  • 
And  Hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art!  (23) 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start ! 
Even  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath. 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe! 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare : 
Whence  but  from  Her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair? 

Awake,  arise !  with  grateful  fervor  fraught. 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  through  Nature's  various  walk,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  portrays ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unliallow'd  guest, 
Culls  from  the  crow  d  the  purest  and  the  best ; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  Fancy's  golden  clime, 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  Science  sits  sublime 
.  Or  wake  the  Spirit  of  departed  Ti«««. 

19 


6 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  Muse, 

A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  re\-ie\vs ! 

So  rich  the  cultiire,  though  so  small  the  space, 

Its  scanty  Uraits  he  forgets  to  trace. 

But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky. 

Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh !  (24) 

The  weary  waste,  that  lengthen'd  as  he  ran. 

Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span ! 

Ah !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined  ? 
When  age  has  quench'd  the  eye,  and  closed  the  ear, 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere, 
Oft  will  she  rise — with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  long-loved  image  vanish'd  from  her  view ; 
Dart  tlirough  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past. 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast  ; 
With  giant-grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  through  the  grove  the  impatient  mother  dies. 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose. 
Long  on  the  wood-moss  stretch'd  in  sweet  repose. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind ; 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire, 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire, 
WTien,  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer-sun, 
He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds  were  done. 

Go,  with  old  Thames,  \-iew  Chelsea's  glorious  pile ; 
And  ask  the  shatter'd  hero,  whence  his  smile  ? 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich — go, 
And  own  what  raptures  from  Reflection  flow. 

Hail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave ! 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age. 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest's  rage  ; 
]x)ng  have  ye  known  Reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  Valor's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the  piece. 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole, 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pur- 
sued (25) 
Each  mountain  scene,  majestically  rude ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  life, 
Far  from  the  din  of  Folly's  idle  strife  ; 
Nor  there  awhile,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  Pembroke  rear'd ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power. 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place. 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  1 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride. 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sigh'd.  (26) 
Thus,  through  the  gloom  of  Shenstone's  fairy-grove, 
Maria's  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
A  wes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning-hour. 
Than  when  the  shades  of  Time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace, 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand, 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land ; 


And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile, 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle  ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  when  present  and  confest, 
Scamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  view'd, 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude. 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh. 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  w  orld  can  never  know ; 
In  gentler  climes  their  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day, 
When  the  hush'd  grove  has  sung  his  parting  lay; 
WTien  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car. 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening-star ; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell. 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heath,  and  bushy  dell ! 
A  thousand  nameless  niiS,  that  shun  the  light, 
Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul. 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  Pleasure's  gay  control, 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  Seclusion  rise, 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies! 

Once,  and  domestic  amials  tell  the  time, 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime) 
When  Nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscape  threw 
Her  richest  fragrance,  and  her  brightest  hue, 
A  blithe  and  blooming  Forester  explored 
Those  loftier  srenes  Salvator's  soul  adored  ; 
The  rocky  pass  half  hung  with  shaggy  wood. 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood ; 
Nor  shunn'd  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread, 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led ; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exulting  wing  the  heath-cock  rose  (27) 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows ; 
Ere  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodoar; 
And  through  the  rifted  cliffs,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  (28)  charm'd  his  dazzled  eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave. 
Through  morn's  grey  mist  its  melting  colors  gave ; 
And  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brush'd  the  orient  dew, 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  Adventurer  flew ; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore. 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  w^elcome  wore. 
Imbovvering  shrubs  with  verdure  veil'd  the  sky. 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye  ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  foam  of  some  shelter'd  stream 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  toll'd, 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penn'd  his  fold  ; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  play'd , 
When,  hark!  a  voice  sung  sweetly  through  the  shade 
It  ceased — yet  still  in  Florio's  fancy  sung. 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead  a  cool,  sequester'd  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  cross'd  the  pebbled  floor, 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore  : 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude ! 
Ir  this  secret,  shadowy  cell 
Musing  Memory  loves  to  dwell, 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 

14 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


Far  from  the  busy  ^vorld  she  flies, 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  she  sits  ;  from  youth  to  age, 
Re^^ew^ng  Life's  eventful  page ; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away, 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 

Florio  had  gain'd  a  rude  and  rocky  seat. 
When  lo,  the  Genius  of  this  still  retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form — but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
Tlie  pensiA-e  softness  of  her  angel-face  ? 
Can  Virgil's  verse,  can  Raphael's  touch,  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart, 
Tliose  tend'rer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye, 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  mark'd  the  stranger  there ; 
Her  pastoral  beauty,  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white-Aving'd  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  s\Tnpathy, 
Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet  ? 
Sweet  is  their  office,  as  tlieir  natures  sweet ! 

Florio,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid. 
Till  through  a  vista's  moonhght-chequer'd  shade. 
Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed) 
An  antique  mansion  burst  in  a-«-ful  stale, 
A  rich  \"ine  clustering  round  the  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  paused  he  there.   The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  de^Ay  green ; 
And,  slow  advancing,  hail'd  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  express'd. 
He  wore  the  rustic  maimers  of  a  'Squire ; 
Age  had  not  quench'd  one  spark  of  manly  fire ; 
But  giant  Gout  had  boimd  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  Remembrance,  sweetly-soothing  Power ! 
Wing'd  with  dehght  Confinement's  lingering  hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear, 
He  scour'd  the  county  in  his  elbow-chair  ; 
And,  with  \"iew-halloo,  roused  the  dreaming  hound, 
That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined. 
His  aged  hmiters  coursed  the  viewless  wind : 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portray'd, 
The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  display'd ; 
Usurp'd  the  canvas  of  the  crowded  hall. 
And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 
There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew!  ^ 

High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest-tropliies  hung. 
And  their  fantastic  branches  wildly  flung. 
How  would  he  dwell  on  the  vast  antlers  there ! 
These  dash'd  the  wave,  those  fann'd  the  mountain-air. 
All,  as  they  frown'd,  unwritten  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong  ? — His  only  child. 
His  darling  Julia  on  the  stranger  smii'd. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please. 
Her  gentle  gaiety,  and  native  ease 
Had  won  his  soul ;  and  rapturous  Fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But  ah!  few  days  had  pass'd,  ere  the  bright  vision  fled ! 

When  evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  blue. 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw  ; 


Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  from  the  cove, 

DoAvn  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove  ;  (29) 

Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  taper'd  rite 

Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night : 

And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 

A  sacred  calm  through  the  browTi  fohage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  through  the  silent  glade. 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  survey 'd. 
High  himg  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined. 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  cf  every  wind ; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet-wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rock'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave  ; 
The  eagle  rush'd  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant-nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimm'd  with  de\Ay  ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung, 
And  her  broad  hghts  on  every  momitain  flimg ; 
When  lo !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew%  (30) 
And  to  the  surge  consign'd  the  httle  crew. 
All,  all  escaped — but  ere  the  lover  bore 
His  faint  and  faded  Julia  to  the  shore, 
Her  sense  had  fled ! — Exhausted  by  the  storm, 
A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  form ; 
Her  closing  eye  a  trembhng  lustre  fired ; 
'T  was  Ufe's  last  spark — it  flutter'd  and  expired ! 

The  father  strew'd  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Call'd  on  his  child — nor  linger'd  long  behind  : 
And  Florio  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave, 
With  many  an  evening-wliisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  Florio  hved — and,  still  of  each  possess'd. 
The  father  cherish'd,  and  the  maid  caress'd ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove. 
With  Julia's  spirit,  through  the  shadowy  grove ; 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  plann'd, 
Kiss  every  flow'ret  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade. 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  hghts  betray'd 
Half-viewless  forms ;  still  listen'd  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees  ^ 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught. 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunn'd  the  blaze  of  day  ; 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  ils  inmost  cell, 
Murmur'd  of  Julia's  virtues  as  it  fell ; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone, 
In  Florio's  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  the  enchantress  Memory  threw 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too! 
-  "But  is  Her  magic  only  felt  below? 
Say,  through  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere,  (31) 
She  jields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here  : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew  ; 
Not  call'd  in  slow  succession  tq  review, 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day. 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey ! 

Each  scene  of  bliss  reveal'd,  since  chaos  fled. 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzling  glories  spread  ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glow'd. 
Since  first  Creation's  choral  anthem  flow'd  ; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  Mercy's  call  divine. 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscover'd  shine  ; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  raj^, 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 


8 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  Friendship,  soar ; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more ! 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  Time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant-years, 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife. 
Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life ; 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers  ; 
As  at  a  dream  that  charm'd  her  vacant  hours ! 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend ; 
To  hover  round  his  evening-walk  unseen, 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green; 
To  hail  the  spot  w^here  first  their  friendship  grew. 
And  heaven  and  nature  open'd  to  their  view ! 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell, 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well! 

Oh  thou!  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  Reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care; 
With  whom,  alas!  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below; 
If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love. 
Still  o'er  my  Ufe  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind. 
Devout  yet  cheerful,  active  yet  resign'd ; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguise, 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aim'd  to  rise. 
To  meet  the  changes  Time  and  Chance  present, 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
When  thy  last  breath,  ere  Nature  siuik  to  rest. 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  express'd ; 
^^'hen  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed; 
\Miat  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave, 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave? 
The  sweet  Remembrance  of  unblemish'd  youth. 
The  still  inspiring  voice  of  Innocence  and  Truth ! 

Hail,  Memory,  hail!  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  imnumber'd  treasures  shine! 
Thouaht  and  her  shadov\y  brood  thy  call  obey, 
And  Place  and  Time  are  subject  to  thy  sway! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone ; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  Hope's  summer-visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  Reason  play, 
Lo,  Fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  Art,  the  grasp  of  Power, 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well-spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight, 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest. 
Where  Virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest! 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  page  2,  col.  2. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear. 

I  «'arae  to  the  place  of  my  birth  and  cried,  "  The 
friends  of  my  y^uth,  where  are  they?" — And  an  echo 
answered  "  A^^lcre  are  they?" — From  an  Arabic  MS. 


Note  2,  page  3,  col.  1. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise ! 
A\Tien  a  traveller,  who  was  surveying  the  ruins  of 
Pome,  expressed  a  desire  to  possess  some  relic  of  it.s 
ancient  grandeur,  Poussin,  who  attended  him,  stooped 
down,  and  gathering  up  a  handful  of  earth  shining 
with  small  grains  of  porphyry,  "  Take  this  home," 
said  he,  "  for  your  cabinet ;  and  say  boldly,  Questa  ^ 
Roma  Ayitica." 

Note  3,  page  3,  col.  1. 
The  church-yard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep. 

Every  man,  like  Gulliver  in  Lilliput,  is  fastened  to 
some  spot  of  earth,  by  the  thousand  small  threads 
which  habit  and  association  are  continually  stealing 
over  him.  Of  these,  perhaps,  one  of  the  strongest  is 
here  alluded  to. 

When  the  Canadian  Indians  were  once  solicited 
to  emigrate,  "  What!"  they  replied,  "shall  we  say  to 
the  bones  of  our  fathers,  Arise,  and  go  with  us  into 
a  foreign  land  ?" 

Note  4,  page  3,  col.  1. 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu. 
See  Cook's  first  voyage,  book  i,  chap.  16. 
Another  very  affecting  instance  of  local  attachment 
is  related  of  his  I'ellow-cotmtrjman  Potaveri,  who 
came  to  Europe  with  M.  de  Bougainville. — See  les 
Jardins,  chant  ii. 

Note  5,  page  3,  col.  2. 
So  Scotia's  Queen,  etc. 
Elle  se  leve  sur  son  lit,  et  se  met  a  contempler 
la  France  encore,  et  tant  qu'elle  peut. — Brantome. 

Note  6,  page  3,  col.  2. 
Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
To  an  accidental  association  may  be  ascribed  some 
of  the  noblest  efforts  of  human  genius.  The  Histo- 
rian of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire 
first  conceived  his  design  among  the  ruins  of  the 
Capitol ;  and  to  the  tones  of  a  Welsh  harp  are  we 
indebted  for  the  Bard  of  Gray. 

Note  7,  page  3,  col.  2. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure,  etc 
WTio  can  sufficiently  admire  the  affectionate  at- 
tachment of  Plutarch,  who  thus  concludes  his  enu- 
meration of  the  advantages  of  a  great  citv'  to  men  of 
letters?  "As  to  myself,  I  live  in  a  little  town;  and  I 
choose  to  live  there,  lest  it  should  become  still  less.' 
Vit.  Dem. 

Note  8,  page  3,  col.  2. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  etc. 
He  was  suspected  of  murder,  and  at  Venice  sus- 
picion is  good  e\-idence.  Neither  the  interest  of  the 
Doge,  his  father,  nor  the  intrepidity^  of  conscious  in- 
nocence, which  he  exhibited  in  the  dungeon  and  on 
the  rack,  could  procure  his  acquittal.  He  was  ban- 
ished to  the  island  of  Candia  for  hfe. 

But  here  his  resolution  failed  him.  At  such  a  dis- 
tance from  home  he  could  not  live ;  and,  as  it  was  a 
criminal  offence  to  solicit  the  intercession  of  a  foreign 
prince,  in  a  fit  of  despair  he  addressed  a  letter  to  the 
Duke  of  Milan,  and  intrusted  it  to  a  AATCtch  Avhose 
perfidy,  he  knew,  -would  occasion  his  being  remanded 
•a  prisoner  to  Venice. 

16 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


9 


Note  9,  page  3,  col.  2. 
And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart: 
Whatever  \\-ithdraws  lis  from  the  power  of  our 
senses;  whatever  makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the 
future,  predominate  over  the  present,  advances  us  m 
the  dignitv  of  thinking  beings.  Far  from  me  and  far  from 
my  friends  be  such  frigid  philosophy  as  may  conduct 
us  indifferent  and  unmoved  over  any  ground  which 
has  been  dignified  by  wisdom,  bravery,  or  virtue. 
That  man  is  little  to  be  envied,  whose  patriotism 
would  not  gain  force  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon,  or 
whose  piety  would  not  grow  warmer  among  the  ruins 
of  lona. — Johnson. 

Note  10,  page  3,  col.  2. 

And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
The  Paraclete,  founded  by  Abelard,  in  Champagne. 

Note  11,  page  3,  col.  2. 
'T  was  ever  thus.    As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb. 
Vows  and  pilgrimages  are  not  peculiar  to  the  re- 
ligious enthusiast.     Silius  Italicus  performed  annual 
ceremonies  on  the  mountain  of  Posilipo ;  and  it  was 
there  that  Boccaccio,  quasi  da  un  divino  cstro  inspi- 
rato,  resolved  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  Muses. 
Note  12,  page  3,  col.  2. 
So  Tully  paused  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time. 
When  Cicero  was  qusestor  in  Sicily,  he  discovered 
the  tomb  of  Archimedes  by  its  mathematical  inscrip- 
tion.— Tusc.  Qu:sst.  v.  3. 

Note  13,  page  3,  col.  2. 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  weep. 
The  influence  of  the  associating  principle  is  finely 
exemplified  in  the  faithful  Penelope,  when  she  sheds 
tears  over  the  bow  of  Ulysses. — Od.  xxi,  55. 

Note  14,  page  3,  col.  2. 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild. 

The  celebrated  Ranz  des  Vaches ;  "  cet  air  si  cheri 
des  Suisses  qn'il  fut  defendu  sous  peine  de  mort  de 
le  jouer  dans  leurs  troupes,  parce  qu'il  faisoit  fondre 
en  larmes,  deserfer  ou  mourir  ceux  qui  I'entendoient, 
tant  il  excitoit  en  cux  I'ardent  desir  de  revoir  lour 
patrie." — Rousseau. 

The  jnaladie  de  pays  is  as  old  as  the  human  heart. 
Juvenal's  little  cup-bearer 

Suspirat  lonco  non  visam  tempore  matrem, 
Et  casulam,  et  notos  tristis  desiderat  hoedos. 
And  the  Argive,  in  the  heat  of  battle, 
Dulces  morions  reminiscitur  Argos. 


Note  15,  page  4,  col.  2. 
Say  why  Vespasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm. 

This  emperor,  according  to  Suetonius,  constantly 
passed  the  summer  in  a  small  villa  near  Reate,  where 
he  was  bom,  and  to  which  he  would  never  add  any 
embellishment,  ne  quid  scilicet  ocidorum  consuetudini 
deperiret. — Suet,  in  Vit.  Vesp.  cap.  ii. 

A  similar  instance  occurs  in  the  life  of  the  venera- 
ble Pertinax,  as  related  by  J.  Capilolinus.  Posteaquam 
in  Liguriam  venit,  multis  agris  coemptis,  tabernam 
patemara,  manente  forma  priore,  infinitis  aedificiis  cir- 
cumdedit. — Hist.  August.  54. 

And  it  is  said  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  that,  when  he 

built  his  magnificent  palace  on  the  site  of  the  old  family 

3  B2 


chateau  at  Richelieu,  he  sacrificed  its  symmetry  to 
preserve  ths  room  in  wliich  he  wai  bom. — Mtm.  de 
jSnie  de  Monfpensier,  i,  27. 

An  attachment  of  this  nature  is  generally  the  char- 
acteristic of  a  benevolent  mind  ;  and  a  long  acquaint- 
ance with  the  world  cannot  always  extinguish  it. 

"To  a  friend,"  says  John,  Duke  of  Buckingham 
"  I  will  expose  my  wealoiess :  I  am  oftener  missing 
a  pretty  gallery  in  the  old  house  I  pulled  down,  than 
pleased  with  a  saloon  wliich  I  built  in  its  stead, 
though  a  tliousand  times  better  in  all  respects." — See 
his  Letter  to  the  D.  of  Sh. 

This  is  the  language  of  the  heart ;  and  will  re- 
mind the  reader  of  that  good-humored  remark  in  one 
of  Pope's  letters  —  "I  should  hardly  care  to  have  an 
old  post  pulled  up,  that  I  remembered  ever  since  I 
was  a  child." 

Nor  did  the  Poet  feel  the  charm  more  forcibly  than 

his  Editor.     See  Kurd's  Life  of  Warburton,  51,  99. 

The  Author  of  Telemachus  has  illustrated  this 

subject,  with  equal  fancy  and  feeling,  in  the  storj'  of 

Ahbee,  Persan. 

Note  16,  page  4,  col.  1. 
Why  great  Navarre,  etc. 
That  amiable  and  accomplished  monarch,  Henry 
the  Fourth  of  France,  made  an  excursion  from  his 
camp,  during  the  long  siege  of  Laon,  to  dine  at  a 
house  in  ihe  forest  of  Folambray ;  where  he  had 
often  been  regaled,  when  a  boy,  with  fruit,  milk,  and 
new  cheese ;  and  in  revisiting  wliich  he  promised 
himself  great  pleasure. — Mdm.  de  Sully. 
Note  17,  page  4,  col.  1. 
When  Diocletian's  self-corrected  mind. 
Diocletian  retired  into  his  native  province,  and 
there  amused  himself  with  building,  planting,  and 
gardening.     His  answer  to  Maximian  is  deservedly 
celebrated.  He  was  sohcited  by  that  restless  old  man 
to  reassume  the  reins  of  government,  and  the  Impe- 
rial purple.  He  rejected  the  temptation  wth  a  smile 
of  pity,  calmly  observing,  "  that  if  he  could  show 
Maximian  the  cabbages  which  he  had  planted  with 
his  own  hands  at  Salona,  he  should  no  longer  be 
urged  to  relinquish  the  enjoyment  of  happiness  for 
the  pursuit  of  power." — Gibbon. 

Note  18,  page  4,  col.  1. 
Say,  when  contentious  Charles  renounced  a  throne. 
When  the  emperor  Charles  V.  had  executed  his 
memorable  resolution,  and  had  set  out  for  the  mon 
astery  of  St.  Justus,  he  stopped  a  few  days  at  Ghent, 
says  his  historian,  to  indulge  that  tender  and  pleas 
ant  melancholy,  which  arises  in  the  mind  of  every 
man  in  the  decline  of  life,  on  visiting  the  place  of 
his  nativit\%  and  viewing  the  scenes  and  objects  fa 
miliar  to  him  in  liis  early  youth. — RobertsOxV. 
Note  19,  page  4,  col.  1. 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 
The  memory  of  the  horse  forms  the  groundwork 
of  a  pleasing  little  romance  of  the  twelfth  century 
entitled,  "  Lai  du  Palefroy  vair." — See  Fabliaux  du 
XII.  siecle. 

Ariosto  likew^ise  introduces  it  in  a  passage  full  of 
truth  and  nature.   When  Bayardo  meets  Angelica  in 

the  forest, 

. Va  mansueto  alia  Donzella, 


Che  in  Albracca  il  servia  gist  di  sua  mano. 

Orlando  Furioso,  canto  i.  75 


10 


ROGERS'S  POETICx\L  WORKS. 


Note  20,  page  4,  col.  1. 
Sweet  bird '.  thy  truth  shall  Haarlem's  walls  attest. 

During  the  siege  of  Haarlem,  when  that  city  was 
reduced  to  the  last  extremit}',  and  on  the  point  of 
opening  its  gates  to  a  base  and  barbarous  enemy,  a 
design  was  formed  to  relieve  it ;  and  the  intelligence 
w  asconveyod  to  the  citizens  by  a  letter  which  was 
tied  under  the  wing  of  a  pigeon. — Thlanus,  lib.  Iv. 
c.  5. 

The  same  messenger  was  employed  at  the  siege 
of  Mulina,  as  we  are  informed  by  the  elder  Pliny. — 
Hist.  Nat.  X,  31 

Note  21,  page  4,  col.  2. 
Hark  '.  the  bee.  etc. 

This  little  animal,  from  the  extreme  convexity  of 
her  eye,  cannot  see  many  inches  before  her. 

Note  .22,  page  5,  col.  1. 
These  still  e.xist,  etc. 

There  is  a  future  Existence  even  in  this  world,  an 
Existence  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  those  who  shall 
live  after  us.  It  is  in  reserve  for  every  man,  how- 
ever obscure  ;  and  his  portion,  if  he  l^e  diligent,  must 
be  equal  to  his  desires  For  in  whose  remembrance 
can  we  wish  to  hold  a  place,  but  such  as"  know,  and 
are  known  by  us?  These  are  within  the  sphere  of 
our  influence,  and  among  these  and  their  descend- 
ants we  may  live  evermore. 

It  is  a  state  of  rewards  and  pimishments  :  and.  like 
that  revealed  to  us  in  the  Gospel,  has  the  happiest 
influence  on  our  lives.  The  latter  excites  us  to  gain 
the  favor  of  God.  the  former  to  gain  the  love  and 
esteem  of  wise  and  good  men ;  and  Ivnh  lead  to  the 
same  end ;  for,  in  framing  our  conceptions  of  the 
Deity,  we  only  ascribe  to  Hun  exalted  degrees  of 
Wisdom  and  Goodness. 

Note  23,  page  5,  col.  2. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art  \ 

The  astronomer  chalking  his  figures  on  the  wall 
in  Hogarth's  view  of  Bedlam,  is  an  admirable  ex 
emplification  of  this  idea. — See  the  Rake's  Progress 
plate  8. 

Note  24,  page  6,  col.  1. 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  I 
The  following  stanzas  are  said  to  have  been  writ- 
ten on  a  blank  leaf  of  this  Poem.     They  present  so 
affecting  a  reverse  of  the  picture,  that  I  cannot  resist 
llie  opportunity  of  introducing  them  here. 

Pleasures  of  Meniory  ! — oh  :  supremely  blest. 
And  justly  proud  beyond  a  Poet's  praise  : 

If  the  pure  confines  of  thy  tranquil  breast 
Contain,  indeed,  the  subject  of  thy  lays  I 
By  me  how  envied  I — for  to  me. 
The  herald  still  of  misery, 
Memory  makes  her  influence  known 
By  sighs,  and  tears,  and  grief  alone  ; 

I  greet  her  as  the  fiend,  to  whom  belong 

The  vulture's  ravening  beak,  the  raven's  funeral  song. 


She  tells  of  time  misspent,  of  comfort  lost, 

Of  fair  occasions  gone  for  ever  by ; 
Of  hoi)e3  too  fondly  nursed,  too  rudely  cross'd. 
Of  many  a  cause  to  wish,  yet  fear  to  die ; 
For  wliat,  except  th'  instinctive  fear 
I,ost  she  survive,  detains  me  here. 
When  "  all  the  life  of  life"  is  fled  ?— 
What,  but  the  deep  inherent  dread. 
Lest  she  beyond  the  grave  resume  her  reign. 
And  realize  the  hell  that  priests  and  beldams  feign  1 

Note  25,  page  6,  col.  1. 

Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild-wood  vales  pursued. 

On  the  road-side,  between  Penrith  and  Appleby, 
there  stands  a  small  pillar  with  this  inscription : 

"  This  pillar  was  erected  in  the  year  1656,  by  Ann 
Countess-Dowager  of  Pembroke,  etc.  for  a  memorial 
of  her  last  parting,  in  this  place,  with  her  good  and 
pious  mother,  Margaret,  Countess-Dowager  of  Cum- 
berland, on  the  2d  of  April,  1616  ;  in  memory  where- 
of she  hath  left  an  annuity  of  4Z.  to  l)e  distributed  to 
the  poor  of  the  parish  of  Brougham,  every  2d  day 
of  April  for  ever,  ujx^n  the  stone-table  placed  hard 
by.     Laus  Deo !" 

The  Eden  is  the  principal  river  of  Cumberland, 
and  rises  in  the  wildest  part  of  Westmoreland. 

Note  26,  page  6,  col.  1. 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sigh'd. 

Ormond  Ixire  the  loss  with  patience  and  dignity; 
though  he  ever  retained  a  pleasing,  however  melan- 
dioly,  sense  of  the  signal  merit  of  Ossory.  "  I  would 
not  exchange  mv  dead  son,"  said  he,  "  for  any  living 
son  in  Christendom." — Hume. 

The  same  sentiment  is  inscribed  on  Miss  Dolman's 
um  at  the  Leasowes.  "  Heu,  quanto  minus  est  cum 
reliquis  versari,  quam  tui  meminissel" 

Note  27,  page  6,  col.  2. 
High  on  exulting  wing  Uie  heath-cock  rose. 
This  bird  is  remarkable  for  his  exultation  during 
the  spring. 

Note  28,  page  6,  col.  2. 
Derwent's  clear  mirror. 
Keswick-Lake  in  Cumberland. 

Note  29,  page  7,  col.  2. 
Down  by  St.  Herbert's  consecrated  grove. 
A  small  island  covered  with  trees,  among  which 
wfere  formerly  the  ruins  of  a  religious  house. 

Note  30,  page  7,  col.  2. 
When  lo  I  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 
In  a  lake  surrounded  with  mountains,  the  agita- 
tions are  often  violent  and  momentary.  The  winds 
blow  in  gusts  and  leddies ;  and  the  water  no  sooner 
swells,  than  it  sul^sides. — See  Bourn's  Hist,  of  West- 
moreland. 

Note  31,  page  7,  col.  2. 
To  w'hat  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere. 
The  several  degrees  of  angels  may  probably  have 
larger  views,  and  some  of  them  be  endowed  with 
capacities  able  to  retain  together,  and  constantly  set 
before  them,  as  in  one  picture,  all  their  past  know- 
led  ere  at  once. — Locke. 


18 


?i^xtmmi  MU. 


ARGUMENT. 

Introduction — Ringing  of  bells  in  a  neighboring  Vil- 
lage on  the  birth  of  an  heir — General  Reflections 
on  Human  Life — The  Subject  proposed — Child- 
hood— Youth — Manhood — Love — Marriage — \)o- 
mestic  Happiness  and  Affliction — War — Peace — 
Civil  Dissension — Retirement  from  active  Life — 
Old  Age  and  its  Enjoyments — Conclusion. 


"^  The  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky : 

The  bees  have  humm'd  their  noon-tide  lullaby. 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound : 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer. 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale  ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin  ; 
The  ale,  now  brew'd,  in  floods  of  amber  sliine  : 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
'Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days. 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'T  was  on  these  luiees  he  sate  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze  ; 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scatter'd  round ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage-porch  with  garlands  green. 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  Aargin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas,  nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  v.eeds  are  seen^ 
And  weepings  heard  W'here  only  joy  has  been ; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more, 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 

And  such  is  Human  Life  ;  so  gliding  on, 
It  glimmers  like  a  meteor,  and  is  gone ! 
Yet  is  the  tale,  brief  though  it  be,  as  strange, . 
As  fall,  methinks,  of  wild  and  wondrous  change. 
As  any  that  the  w^andering  tribes  require, 
Stretcli'd  in  the  desert  round  their  evening-fire ; 
As  any  sung  of  old  in  hall  or  bower 
To  rninstrel-harps  at  midnight's  witching  hour ! 
Born  in  a  trance,  we  wake,  observe,  inquire  ; 
And  the  green  earth,  the  azui-e  sky  admire. 
Of  Elfin-size — for  ever  as  we  run, 
We  cast  a  longer  shadow  in  the  sun ! 
And  now  a  charm,  and  now  a  grace  is  won! 
We  grow  in  wasdom,  and  in  stature  too ! 
And,  as  new  scenes,  new  objects  rise  to  view, 
Think  nothing  done  while  aught  reraams  to  do. 


Yet,  all  forgot,  how  oft  the  eye-lids  close, 
And  from  the  slack  hand  drops  the  gather'd  rose ! 
How  oft,  as  dead,  on  the  warm  turf  we  lie. 
While  many  an  emmet  comes  with  curious  eye ; 
And  on  her  nest  the  watchful  wren  sits  by ! 
Nor  do  we  speak  or  move,  or  hear  or  see  ; 
So  like  what  once  we  were,  and  once  again  shall  be 

And  say,  how  soon,  where,  blithe  as  innocent. 
The  boy  at  sun-rise  whistled  as  he  went, 
An  aged  pilgrim  on  his  staflf  shall  lean. 
Tracing  in  vain  the  footsteps  o'er  the  green ; 
The  man  liimself  how  alter'd,  not  the  scene  I 
Now  journeying  home  with  nothing  but  the  name  , 
Wayworn  and  spent,  another  and  the  same ! 

No  eye  observes  the  growth  or  the  decay : 
To-day  we  look  as  we  did  yesterday ; 
And  we  shall  look  to-raorrow  as  to-day : 
Yet  while  the  loveliest  smiles,  her  locks  grow  grey ' 
And  in  her  glass  could  she  but  see  the  face 
She  '11  see  so  soon  amidst  another  race. 
How  would  she  shrink ! — Returning  from  afar. 
After  some  years  of  travel,  some  of  war, 
Within  his  gate  Ulysses  stood  unknown 
Before  a  wife,  a  father,  and  a  son ! 

And  such  is  Hiunan  Life,  the  general  theme. 
Ah,  what  at  best,  what  but  a  longer  dream  ? 
Though  with  such  wild  romantic  wanderings  fraught. 
Such  forms  in  Fancy's  richest  coloring  wrought, 
That,  like  the  visions  of  a  love-sick  brain, 
\\Tio  would  not  sleep  and  dream  them  o'er  again? 

Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice  ;  (1) 
And  all  must  follow,  fearful  as  it  is ! 
From  the  first  step  'tis  known;  but — No  delay! 
On,  'tis  decreed.     We  tremble  and  obey. 
A  thousand  ills  beset  us  as  we  go. 
— "  Still,  could  I  shun  the  fatal  gulf" — Ah,  no, 
'Tis  all  in  vain — the  inexorable  law! 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  brink  we  draw. 
Verdure  springs  up;  and  frvuts  and  flowers  invite. 
And  groves  and  fountains — all  things  that  delight 
"  Oh  I  would  stop,  and  linger  if  I  might !" — 
We  fly ;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find  ;  (2) 
And  dark  before,  all  desolate  behind ! 
At  length  the  brink  appears — but  one  step  more ! 
We  faint- — On,  on ! — we  falter — and  'tis  o'er^  ,  . 

Yet  here  high  passions,  high  desires  unfold. 
Prompting  to  noblest  deeds ;  here  links  of  gokl 
Bind  soul  to  soul ;  and  thoughts  di\ine  inspire 
A  thirst  unquenchable,  a  holy  fire 
That  will  not,  cannot  but  with  Me  expire ! 

Now,  seraph-\\-lng'd,  among  the  stars  we  soar , 
Now  distant  ages,  like  a  day,  explore. 
And  judge  the  act,  the  actor  now  no  more ; 
Or,  in  a  thankless  hour  condemn'd  to  live, 
From  others  claim  what  these  refuse  to  give, 
And  dart,  like  Milton,  an  unerring  eye 
Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurit}'.  (3) 

Wealth,  Pleasure,  Ease,  all  thought  of  self  resign'd, 
WTial  vdll  not  Man  encounter  for  Mankind  ? 

19 


12 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Behold  him  now  vinbar  ihe  prison-door, 
And,  Hfting  Guilt,  Contagion  from  the  floor. 
To  Peace  and  Health,  and  Light  and  Life  restore ; 
Now  in  Therraopyte  remain  to  share 
Death — nor  look  back,  nor  turn  a  footstep  there, 
Leaving  his  story  to  the  birds  of  air ; 
And  now  like  Pylades  (in  Heaven  they  write 
Names  such  as  his  in  characters  of  light) 
Ix)ng  with  liis  friend  in  generous  enmity. 
Pleading,  insisting  in  his  place  to  die! 
Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  reaUze 
Half  he  conceives — the  glorious  vision  flies. 
Go  where  he  may,  he  cannot  hope  to  find 
The  truth,  the  beauty  pictured  in  his  mind. 
But  if  by  chance  an  object  strike  the  sense, 
The  faintest  shadow  of  that  Excellence, 
Passions,  that  slept,  are  stirring  in  his  frame  ; 
Thoughts  undefined,  feelings  without  a  name ! 
And  some,  not  here  call'd  forth,  may  slumber  on 
Till  this  vaui  pageant  of  a  world  is  gone  ; 
Lying  too  deep  for  things  that  perish  here. 
Waiting  for  hfe — but  in  a  nobler  sphere  ! 

Look  where  he  comes !  Rejoicing  in  his  birlh, 
Awhile  he  moves  as  in  a  heaven  on  earth  I 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars — the  land,  the  sea,  the  sky 
To  him  shine  out  as  't  were  a  galaxy  I 
But  soon  'tis  pp.st — the  light  has  died  away  I 
With  him  it  came  (it  was  not  of  the  day) 
And  he  himself  diffused  it,  like  the  stone 
That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own,  (4) 
Making  night  beautiful.     'Tis  past,  'tis  gone, 
And  in  his  darkness  as  he  journeys  on. 
Nothing  revives  him  but  the  blessed  ray 
That  now  breaks  in,  nor  ever  knows  decay. 
Sent  from  a  better  world  to  light  him  on  his  way. 

How  great  the  Mystery !  Let  others  sing 
The  circling  Year,  the  promise  of  the  Spring, 
The  Summer's  glory,  and  the  rich  repose 
Of  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  silvery  snows. 
Man  through  the  changing  scene  let  mo  pursue, 
Himself  ):ow  wondrous  in  his  changes  too ! 
Not  Man  the  sullen  savage  in  his  den  ; 
But  Man  call'd  forth  in  fellowship  with  men ; 
School'd  and  train'd  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth;  (5) 
God's  noblest  work — His  image  upon  earth ! 

The  hour  arrives,  the  moment  wish"d  and  fear'd ;  (6) 
The  child  is  born,  by  many  a  pang  endear'd. 
And  now  the  mother's  ear  has  caught  his  cry  ; 
Oh  grant  the  cherub  to  her  asking  eye ! 
He  comes — she  clasps  him.    To  her  bosom  press'd. 
He  drinks  the  balm  of  life,  and  drops  to  rest. 

Her  by  her  smile  how  soon  the  Stranger  knows  ; 
How  soon  by  his  the  glad  discovery  shows  I 
As  to  her  lii)s  she  lifts  the  lovely  boy, 
Wliat  answering  looks  of  sympathy  and  joy  I 
He  wallvs,  he  speaks.     In  many  a  broken  word 
His  wants,  his  wishes,  and  his  griefs  are  heard. 
And  ever,  ever  to  her  lap  he  flies. 
When  rosy  Sleep  comes  on  with  sweet  surprise. 
Lock'd  in  her  arms,  his  arms  across  her  flung, 
(That  name  most  dear  for  ever  on  his  tongue) 
y\s  with  soft  accents  round  her  neck  he  clings, 
And  cheek  to  cheek,  her  lulling  song  she  sings, 
How  blest  to  feel  the  beatings  of  his  heart, 
Breatlie  liis  sweet  breath,  and  kiss  for  kiss  impart ; 


Watch  o'er  his  slumbers  like  the  brooding  dove, 
And,  if  she  can,  exhaust  a  mother's  love ! 

But  soon  a  nobler  task  demands  her  care. 
Apart  she  joins  his  little  hands  in  prayer. 
Telling  of  Him  who  sees  in  secret  there ! — 
And  now  the  volume  on  her  knee  has  caught 
His  wandering  eye — now  many  a  written  thought 
Never  to  die,  with  many  a  lisping  sweet 
His  moving,  murmuring  lips  endeavor  to  repeat. 

Released,  he  chases  the  bright  outterfly ; 
Oh  he  would  follow — follow^  through  the  sky ! 
Climbs  the  gaunt  mastiff  slumbering  in  his  chain. 
And  chides  and  buffets,  clinging  by  the  mane ; 
Then  runs,  and,  Icneeling  by  the  fountain-side, 
Sends  his  brave  ship  in  triumph  down  the  tide, 
A  dangerous  voyage ;  or,  if  now  he  can. 
If  now  he  wears  the  habit  of  a  man. 
Flings  off  the  coat  so  long  his  pride  and  pleasure, 
And,  like  a  miser  digging  for  his  treasure, 
liis  tiny  spade  in  his  own  garden  plies. 
And  in  green  letters  sees  his  name  arise  I 
Where'er  he  goes,  for  ever  in  her  sight. 
She  looks,  and  looks,  and  still  with  new  delight! 

Ah  who,  when  fading  of  itself  away. 
Would  cloud  the  sunshine  of  his  little  day ! 
Now  is  the  JNIay  of  Life.     Careering  round, 
Joy  wings  his  feet,  Joy  lifts  him  from  the  ground ! 
Pointing  to  such,  well  might  Cornelia  say. 
When  the  rich  casket  shone  in  bright  array, 
"  These  are  my  Jewels !"  (7)  Well  of  such  as  he, 
When  Jesus  spake,  well  might  his  language  be, 
"  SuflTer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me  !"  (8) 

Thoughtful  by  fits,  he  scans  and  he  reveres 
The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years  ,-(9) 
Close  by  her  side  his  silent  homage  given 
As  to  some  pure  Intelligence  from  Heaven  ; 
Flis  eyes  cast  dov^Tiward  with  ingenuous  shame, 
His  conscious  cheeks,  conscious  of  praise  or  blame, 
At  once  hi  up  as  with  a  holy  flame ! 
He  thirsts  for  knowledge,  speaks  but  to  inquire ; 
And  soon  with  tears  relinquish'd  to  the  Sire, 
Soon  in  his  hand  to  Wisdom's  temple  led, 
Holds  secret  converse  with  the  Mighty  Dead ; 
Trembles  and  thrills  and  weeps  as  they  inspire. 
Burns  as  they  burn,  ainl  with  congenial  fire ! 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate,  (10) 
Crown'd  but  to  die — who  in  her  chamber  sate 
Musing  v\ith  Plato,  though  the  horn  was  blown, 
And  every  ear  and  every  heart  was  won. 
And  all  in  green  array  were  chasing  down  the  sun  * 

Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration  (11) — Then 
Gods  walk  the  earth,  or  beings  more  than  men, 
Who  breathe  the  soul  of  Insijiration  round. 
Whose  very  shadows  consecrate  the  ground ! 
Ah,  then  comes  thronging  many  a  wild  desire. 
And  high  imagining  and  thought  of  fire ! 
Then  from  within  a  voice  exclaims  "Aspire!" 
Phantoms,  that  upward  point,  before  him  pass, 
As  in  the  Cave  athwart  the  Wizard's  glass ; 
They,  that  on  Youth  a  grace,  a  lustre  shed, 
Of  every  age — the  living  and  the  dead ! 
Thou,  all-accornplish'd  Surrey,  thou  art  knowTi  ; 
The  flower  of  Knighthood,  nipt  as  soon  as  blown! 
Melting  all  hearts  but  Geraldine's  alone ! 
And,  with  his  beaver  up,  discovering  there 
One  who  lov'd  less  to  conquer  than  to  spare, 

20 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


13 


l/i   the  Black  Warrior,  he,  who,  battle-spent, 
Bare-headed  served  the  Captive  in  his  tent! 

Young  B in  the  groves  of  Academe, 

Or  where  Ilyssus  winds  his  whispering  stream ; 
Or  where  the  wild  bees  swarm  with  ceaseless  hum, 
Dreaming  old  dreams — a  joy  for  years  to  come  ; 
Or  on  the  Rock  within  the  sacred  Fane  ; — 
Scenes  nuchas  Milton  sought,  but  sought  in  vain:  (12) 
And  Milton's  self  (13)  (at  that  thrice-honored  name 
Well  may  we  glow — as  men,  we  share  his  fame) — 
And  Milton's  self,  apart  with  beaming  eye. 
Planning  he  knows  not  what — that  shall  not  die ! 

Oh  in  thy  truth  secure,  thy  virtue  bold, 
Beware  the  poison  in  the  cup  of  gold. 
The  asp  among  the  flowers.    Thy  heart  beats  high, 
As  bright  and  brighter  breaks  the  distant  sky ! 
But  every  step  is  on  enchanted  ground ; 
Danger  thou  lovest,  and  Danger  haunts  thee  round. 

UTio  spurs  his  horse  against  the  mountain-side  ; 
Then,  plunging,  slakes  his  fury  in  the  tide  ? 
Draws,  and  cries  ho;  and,  where  the  sun-beams  fall. 
At  his  own  shadow  thrusts  along  the  w-all  ? 
Who  dances  without  music  ;  and  anon 
Sings  like  the  lark — then  sighs  as  w^oe-begone, 
And  folds  his  arms,  and,  where  the  willows  wave. 
Glides  in  the  moon-shine  by  a  maiden's  grave  ? 
Come  hither,  'ooy,  and  clear  thy  open  brow : 
Yon  summer-clouds,  now  like  the  Alps,  and  now 
A  ship,  a  whale,  change  not  so  fast  as  thou. 

He  hears  me  not — Those  sighs  were  from  the  heart; 
Too,  too  well  tatight,  he  plays  the  lover's  part. 
He  who  at  masques,  nor  feigning  nor  sincere. 
With  sweet  discourse  would  win  a  lady's  ear, 
Lie  at  her  feet,  and  on  her  slipper  swear 
That  none  were  half  so  faultless,  half  so  fair, 
Now  through  the  forest  hies,  a  stricken  deer, 
A  banish'd  man,  flying  when  none  are  near ; 
And  writes  on  every  tree,  and  lingers  long 
Where  most  the  nightingale  repeats  her  song ; 
Where  most  the  nymph,  that  haunts  the  silent  grove. 
Delights  to  syllable  the  names  we  love. 

Two  on  his  steps  attend,  in  motley  clad ; 
One  woeful-wan,  one  merrier  yet  as  mad ; 
Called  Hope  and  Fear.  Hope  shakes  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  flowers  spring  up  among  the  woodland  dells. 
To  Hope  he  listens,  wandering  without  measure 
Through  sun  and  shade,  lost  in  a  trance  of  pleasure ; 
And,  if  to  Fear  but  for  a  weary  mile, 
Hope  follows  fast  and  wins  him  with  a  smile. 

At  length  he  goes — a  Pilgrim  to  the  Shrine, 
And  for  a  relic  would  a  world  resign ! 
A  glove,  a  shoe-tie,  or  a  flow^er  let  fall — 
What  though  the  least.  Love  consecrates  them  all ! 
And  now  he  breathes  in  many  a  plaintive  verse ; 
Now  wins  the  dull  ear  of  the  wily  nurse 
At  early  matins  ('tw-as  at  matin-time  (14) 
That  first  he  saw  and  sicken'd  in  his  prime), 
^nd  soon  the  Sibyl,  in  her  thirst  for  gold, 
lays  with  young  hearts  that  will  not  be  controU'd. 

"Absence  from  Thee — as  self  from  self  it  seemsl" 
Scaled  is  the  garden-wall !  and  lo,  her  beams 
Silvering  the  east,  the  moon  comes  up,  revealing 
His  well-known  form  along  the  terrace  stealing. 
■ — Oh,  ere  in  sight  he  came,  't  v.as  his  to  thrill 
A  heart  that  loved  him  though  in  secret  still. 


"  Am  I  aw-ake  ?  or  is  it — can  it  be 
An  idle  dream  ?  Nightly  it  visits  me  ! 
— That  strain,"  she  cries,  "  as  from  the  water  rose 
Now  near  and  nearer  through  the  shade  it  flows! — 
Now  sinks  departing — sweetest  in  its  close !" 
A^o  casement  gleams ;  no  Juliet,  like  the  day, 
Comes  forth  and  speaks  and  bids  her  lover  stay. 
Still,  like  aerial  music  heard  from  far. 
Nightly  it  rises  with  the  evening-star. 

— "  She  loves  another !  Love  was  in  that  sigh !" 
On  the  cold  ground  he  throws  himself  to  die. 
Fond  Youth,  beware.   Thy  heart  is  most  deceiving. 
Who  wish  are  fearful ;  who  suspect,  believing. 
— And  soon  her  looks  the  rapturous  truth  avow 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now!  (15) 
She  flies  not,  frowns  not,  though  he  pleads  his  cause; 
Nor  yet — nor  yet  her  hand  from  his  withdraws , 
But  by  some  secret  Power  surprised,  subdued 
(Ah  how  resist  ?   Nor  would  she  if  she  could), 
Falls  on  his  neck  as  half  unconscious  where, 
Glad  to  conceal  her  tears,  her  blushes  there. 

Then  come  those  full  confidings  of  the  past ; 
All  sunshine  now  where  all  was  overcast. 
Then  do  they  wander  till  the  day  is  gone, 
Lost  in  each  other ;  and  when  Night  steals  on. 
Covering  them  round,  how  sweet  her  accents  are ! 
Oh  when  she  turns  and  speaks,  her  voice  is  far, 
Far  above  singing ! — But  soon  nothing  stirs 
To  break  the  silence — Joy  like  his,  like  hers, 
Deals  not  in  words :  and  now  the  shadows  close, 
Now  in  the  glimmering,  dying  light  she  grows 
Less  and  less  earthly  !    As  departs  the  day 
All  that  was  mortal  seems  to  melt  away. 
Till,  like  a  gift  resumed  as  soon  as  given, 
She  fades  at  last  into  a  Spirit  from  Heaven ! 

Then  are  they  blest  indeed ;  and  swift  the  hours 
Till  her  young  Sisters  wreathe  her  hair  in  flowers 
Kindling  her  beauty — while,  tmseen,  the  least 
Twitches  her  robe,  then  runs  behind  the  rest. 
Known  by  her  laugh  that  will  not  be  suppress'd 
Then  before  All  they  stand — the  holy  vow 
And  ring  of  gold,  no  fond  illusions  now. 
Bind  her  as  his.    Across  the  threshold  led. 
And  every  tear  kiss'd  off  as  soon  as  shed. 
His  house  she  enters — there  lo  be  a  light. 
Shining  within,  when  all  without  is  night ; 
A  guardian-angel  o'er  his  life  presiding, 
Doubling  his  pleasures,  and  his  cares  dividing , 
Winning  him  back,  when  mingling  in  the  throng, 
Back  from  a  w-orld  we  love,  alas,  too  long, 
To  fire-side  happiness,  to  hours  of  ease. 
Blest  with  that  charm,  the  certainty  to  please. 
How  oft  her  eyes  read  his ;  her  gentle  mind 
To  all  his  wishes,  all  his  thoughts  inclined  ; 
Still  subject — ever  on  the  watch  to  borrow 
Mirth  of  his  mirth,  and  sorrow  of  his  sorrow 
The  soul  of  music  slumbers  in  the  shell. 
Till  waked  and  kindled  by  the  master's  spell , 
And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly—  pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before!  (16) 

Nor  many  moons  o'er  hill  and  valley  rise 
Ere  to  the  gate  with  nymph-like  step  she  flies, 
And  their  first-born  holds  forth,  their  darling  boy. 
With  smiles  how  sweet,  how  full  of  love  and  joy 
To  meet  him  coming ;  theirs  through  every  year 
Pure  transports,  such  as  each  to  each  endear! 

21 


14 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  voices  fill 

Their  halls  with  gladness.     She,  when  all  are  still, 

Comes  and  imdraws  the  curtain  as  they  lie. 

In  sleep  how^  beautiful !     He,  when  the  sky 

Gleams,  and  the  wood  sends  up  its  harmony. 

When,  gathering  round  his  bed,  they  climb  to  share 

His  kisses,  and  with  gentle  violence  there 

Break  in  upon  a  dream  not  half  so  fair, 

Up  to  the  hill-top  leads  their  little  feet ; 

Or  by  the  forest-lodge,  perchance  to  meet 

The  stag-herd  on  its  march,  perchance  to  hear 

The  otter  rustling  in  the  sedgy  mere ; 

Or  to  the  echo  near  the  Abbot's  tree, 

That  gave  him  back  liis  words  of  pleasantry — 

When  the  House  stood,  no  merrier  man  than  he! 

And,  as  they  wander  with  a  keen  delight, 

If  but  a  leve  tt  catch  their  quicker  sight 

Down  a  green  alley,  or  a  squirrel  then 

Climb  the  gnarl'd  oak,  and  look  and  climb  again, 

If  but  a  moth  flit  by,  an  acorn  fall, 

He  turns  their  thoughts  to  Him  who  made  them  all; 

These  with  unequal  footsteps  following  fast, 

These  clinging  by  his  cloak,  unwilling  to  be  last. 

The  shepherd  on  Tomaro's  misty  brow, 
And  the  swart  sea-man,  sailing  far  below, 
Not  undelighted  watch  the  morning  ray 
Purpling  the  orient — till  it  breaks  away, 
And  burns  and  blazes  into  glorious  day ! 
But  happier  still  is  he  who  bends  to  trace 
That  sun,  the  soul,  just  dauiiing  in  the  face  ; 
The  burst,  the  glow,  the  animating  strife, 
The  thoughts  and  passions  stirring  into  life  ; 
The  forming  utterance,  the  inquiring  glance, 
The  giant  waking  from  his  ten-fold  trance. 
Till  up  he  starts  as  conscious  whence  he  came, 
And  all  is  light  within  the  trembling  frame ! 

W^hat  then  a  Father's  feelings  ?   Joy  and  Fear 
Prevail  in  turn,  Joy  most ;  and  through  the  year 
Tempering  the  ardent,  urging  night  and  day 
Him  who  shrinks  back  or  wanders  from  the  way, 
Praising  each  highly — from  a  w  ish  to  raise 
Their  merits  to  the  level  of  his  Praise. 
Onward  in  their  obser\-ing  sight  he  moves. 
Fearful  of  wrong,  in  awe  of  whom  he  loves  I 
Their  sacred  presence  who  shall  dare  profane  ? 
Who,  when  He  slumbers,  hope  to  fix  a  stain  ? 
He  lives  a  model  in  his  life  to  show, 
That,  when  he  dies  and  through  the  world  they  go. 
Some  men  may  pause  and  say,  when  some  admire, 
"  They  are  his  sons,  and  worthy  of  their  sire !" 

But  Man  is  born  to  suffer.     On  the  door 
Sickness  has  set  her  mark ;  and  now  no  more 
Laughter  within  we  hear,  or  wood-nutes  wild 
As  of  a  mother  singing  to  her  child. 
All  now  in  anguish  from  that  room  retire, 
Where  a  young  cheek  glows  with  consuming  fire. 
And  Innocence  breathes  contagion — all  but  one, 
Bui  ohe  who  gave  it  birth — from  her  alone 
The  medicine-cup  is  taken.     Through  the  ni^ht. 
And  through  the  day,  that  with  its  dreary  light 
Comes  unregarded,  she  sits  silent  by, 
W^atching  the  changes  with  her  anxious  eye  : 
"While  they  uithout,  listening  below,  above, 
<Who  but  in  sorrow  know  how  much  they  love  ?) 
From  every  little  noise  catch  hope  and  fear. 
Exchanging  still,  still  as  they  turn  to  hear, 


^\^lispers  and  sighs,  and  smiles  all  tendemesa 
That  would  in  vain  the  starting  tear  repress. 

Such  grief  was  ours — it  seems  but  yesterday — 
When  in  thy  prime,  wishing  so  much  to  stay, 
'  r  was  thine,  Maria,  thine  without  a  sigh 
At  midnight  in  a  Sister's  arms  to  die ! 
Oh  thou  wert  lovely — lovely  was  thy  frame. 
And  pure  thy  spirit  as  from  Heaven  it  can»e  I 
And,  when  recall'd  to  join  the  bl^^st  above, 
Thou  diedst  a  victim  to  exceeding  love. 
Nursing  the  young  to  health.     In  happier  hours, 
When  idle  Fancy  wove  luxuriant  flowers. 
Once  in  thy  mirth  thou  bad'st  me  write  on  thee  ; 
And  now  I  write — what  thou  shalt  never  see  ! 

At  length  the  Father,  vain  his  power  to  save, 
Follows  his  child  in  silence  to  the  grave, 
(That  child  how  cherish'd,  whom  he  would  not  give, 
Sleeping  the  sleep  of  death,  for  all  that  live !) 
Takes  a  last  look,  when,  not  unheard,  the  spade 
Scatters  the  earth  as  "dust  to  dust"  is  said. 
Takes  a  last  look  and  goes ;  his  best  relief 
Consoling  others  in  that  hour  of  grief. 
And  with  sweet  tears  and  gentle  words  infusing 
The  holy  calm  that  leads  to  heavenly  musing. 

— But  hark,  the  din  of  arms  !  no  time  for  sorrow 
To  horse,  to  horse !  A  day  of  blood  to-morrow ! 
One  parting  pang,  and  then — and  then  I  fly, 
Fly  to  the  field,  to  triumph — or  to  die  I — 
He  goes,  and  Night  comes  as  it  never  came !  (17) 
With  shrieks  of  horror  I — and  a  yault  of  flame  ! 
And  lo !  when  morning  mocks  the  desolate, 
Red  runs  the  river  by ;  and  at  the  gate 
Breathless  a  horse  w  ithout  his  rider  stands ! 
But  hush  I — a  shout  from  the  victorious  bands! 
And  oh  the  smiles  and  tears,  a  sire  restored ! 
One  wears  his  helm,  one  buckles  on  his  sword ; 
One  hangs  the  wall  with  laurel-leaves,  and  all 
Spring  to  prepare  the  soldier's  festival ; 
While  She  best-loved,  till  then  forsaken  never. 
Clings  round  his  neck  as  she  would  cling  for  evei 

Such  golden  deeds  lead  on  to  golden  days, 
Days  of  domestic  peace — by  him  who  plays 
On  the  great  stage  how  uneventful  thought; 
Yet  with  a  thousand  busy  projects  fraught, 
A  thousand  incidents  that  stir  the  mind 
To  pleasure,  such  as  leaves  no  sling  behind ! 
Such  as  the  heart  delights  in — and  records 
Within  how  silently — in  more  than  words ! 
A  Holiday — the  frugal  banquet  spread 
On  the  fresh  herbage  near  the  fountain-head 
With  quips  and  cranks — what  time  the  wood-lark 

there 
Scatters  her  loose  notes  on  the  sultn,'  air, 
What  time  the  king-fisher  sits  perch'd  below, 
Where,  silver-bright,  the  water-lilies  blow  : — 
A  Wake — the  booths  whitening  the  village-green, 
\\liere  Punch  and  Scaramouch  aloft  are  seen ; 
Sign  beyond  sign  in  close  array  unfurl'd, 
Picturing  at  large  the  wonders  of  the  world ; 
And  far  and  wide,  over  the  vicar's  pale. 
Black  hoods  and  scarlet  crossing  hill  and  dale. 
All,  all  abroad,  and  music  in  the  gale : — 
A  Wedding-dance — a  dance  into  the  night 
On  the  barn-floor,  when  maiden-feet  are  light ; 
When  the  young  bride  receives  the  promised  dower, 
And  flowers  are  flung,  herself  a  fairer  flower : — 

22 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


15 


A  raoming-visit  to  the  poor  man's  shed, 

(Who  would  be  rich  while  One  was  wanting  bread  ?) 

When  all  are  emulous  to  bring  relief, 

And  tears  are  foiling  fast — but  not  for  grief: — 

A  Walk  in  Spring — Grattan,  like  those  with  thee. 

By  the  heath-side  (who  had  not  envied  me  0 

When  the  sweet  limes,  so  full  of  bees  in  June, 

Led  us  to  meet  beneath  their  boughs  at  noon  ; 

And  thou  didst  say  which  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

Could  they  but  hear  and  at  thy  bidding  rise. 

Thou  wouldst  call  up  and  question. 

Graver  things 
Come  in  their  turn.  Morning,  and  Evening,  brings 
Its  holy  office ;  and  the  sabbath-bell, 
That  over  wood  and  wild  and  mountain-dell 
Wanders  so  far,  chasing  all  thoughts  unholy 
With  sounds  most  musical,  most  melancholy. 
Not  on  his  ear  is  lost.     Then  he  pursues 
The  pathway  leading  through  the  aged  yews, 
Nor  unattended  ;  and,  when  all  are  there. 
Pours  out  bis  spirit  in  the  House  of  Prayer, 
That  House  with  many  a  funeral-garland  hung  (18) 
Of  virgin-white — memorials  of  the  j'oung. 
The  last  yet  fresh  when  marriage-chimes  were  ringing, 
And  hope  and  joy  in  other  hearts  were  springing ; 
That  House,  where  Age  led  in  by  Filial  Love, 
Their  looks  composed,  their  thoughts  on  things  above. 

The  world  forgot,  or  all  its  WTongs  forgiven 

^Vho  would  not  say  they  trod  the  path  to  Heaven  ? 

Nor  at  the  fragrant  hour — at  early  dawn — 
Under  the  elm-tree^n  his  level  lawn, 
Or  in  his  porch  is  he  less  duly  found, 
When  they  that  cry  for  Justice  gather  round. 
And  in  that  cry  her  sacred  voice  is  drown'd  ; 
His  then  to  hear  and  weigh  and  arbitrate. 
Like  Alfred  judging  at  his  palace-gate. 
Heal'd  at  his  touch,  the  wounds  of  discord  close ; 
And  they  return  as  friends,  that  came  as  foes. 

Thus,  while  the  world  but  claims  its  proper  part. 
Oft  hi  the  head  but  never  in  the  heart, 
His  life  steals  on ;  within  his  quiet  dwelling 
That  home-felt  joy  all  other  joys  excelhng. 
Sick  of  the  crowd,  when  enters  he — nor  then 
Forgets  the  cold  indifference  of  men  ? 
— Soon  through  the  gadding  vine  (19)  the  sim  looks  in, 
And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin. 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin-song, 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise ;  and  (while  without  are  seen. 
Sure  of  their  meal,  the  small  birds  on  the  green ; 
And  in  from  far  a  school-boy's  letter  flies, 
Flushing  the  sister's  cheek  with  glad  surprise) 
That  sheet  unfolds  (who  reads,  that  reads  it  not  ?) 
Bom  with  the  day  and  with  the  day  forgot  ; 
Its  ample  page  various  as  human  life. 
The  pomp,  the  woe,  the  bustle  and  the  strife  I 
But  notliing  lasts.     In  Autumn  at  his  plow 
Met  and  solicited,  behold  liim  now 
Leaving  that  humbler  sphere  his  fathers  Icuew, 
The  sphere  that  Wisdom  loves — and  Virtue  too. 
She  who  subsists  not  on  the  vain  a])plause 
Misjudging  man  now  gives  and  now  withdraws. 

'T  was  mom — the  sky-lark  o'er  the  furrow  sung 
As  from  his  lips  the  slow  consent  was  v^Tung  ; 
As  from  the  glebe  his  fathers  till'd  of  old, 
The  plow  they  guided  in  an  age  of  gold, 


Down  by  the  beech-wood  side  he  tum'd  away : — 
And  now  behold  him  in  an  evil  day 
Serving  the  State  again — not  as  before. 
Not  foot  to  foot,  the  war-whoop  at  his  door, — 
But  in  the  Senate :  and  (though  round  him  fly 
The  jest,  the  sneer,  the  subtle  sophistry, 
With  honest  digiiity,  with  manly  sense, 
And  every  charm  of  natural  eloquence, 
Like  Hampden  struggling  in  his  Country's  cause,  (20) 
The  fn-st,  the  foremost  to  obey  the  laws. 
The  last  to  brooli  oppression.     On  he  moves. 
Careless  of  blame  while  his  own  heart  approves, 
Careless  of  ruin — ("  For  the  general  good 
T  is  not  the  first  time  I  shall  shed  my  blood.") 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed,  (21)  through  which 

before 
Went  Sidney,  Russel,  Raleigh,  Cranmer,  More, 
On  into  twilight  within  walls  of  stone. 
Then  to  the  place  of  trial ;  (22)  and  alone,  (23) 
Alone  before  his  judges  in  array 
Stands  for  his  life  :  there,  on  that  aw^ul  day. 
Counsel  of  friends — all  human  help  denied — 
All  but  from  her  who  sits  the  pen  to  guide, 
Like  that  sweet  Saint  who  sate  by  Russel's  side 
Under  the  Judgment-seat,  (24) — But  guilty  men 
Triumph  not  always.     To  his  hearth  again, 
Again  with  honor  to  his  hearth  restored, 
Lo,  in  the  accustom'd  chair  and  at  the  board. 
Thrice    greeting   those   who   most   withdraw  their 

claim, 
(The  lowliest  servant  calling  by  his  name) 
He  reads  thanksgiving  in  the  eyes  of  all, 
All  met  as  at  a  holy  festival ! 
— On  the  day  destined  for  his  funeral ! 
Lo,  there  the  Friend,  who  entering  where  he  lay 
Breathed  in  his  drowsy  ear,  "  AAvay,  away ! 
Take  thou  my  cloak — Nay,  start  not,  but  obey — 
Take  it  and  leave  me."     And  the  blushing  Maid. 
Who  through  the  streets  as  through  a  desert  stray'd ; 
And,  when  her  dear,  dear  Father  pass'd  along, 
Would  not  be  held — but,  bursting  through  the  throng, 
Halberd  and  battle-axe — kiss'd  him  o'er  and  o'er : 
Then  tum'd  and  went — then  sought  him  as  before. 
Believing  she  should  see  his  face  no  more ! 
And  oh,  how  changed  at  once — no  heroine  here. 
But  a  weak  woman  worn  with  grief  and  fear. 
Her  darling  Mother  I    'T  was  but  now  she  smiled 
And  now  she  weeps  upon  her  weeping  child ! 
— But  who  sits  by,  her  only  wish  below 
At  length  fulfill'd — and  now  prepared  to  go  ? 
His  hands  on  hers — as  through  the  mists  of  night 
She  gazes  on  him  with  imperfect  sight : 
Her  gloiy  now,  as  ever  her  delight  I  (2.5) 
To  her,  methinks,  a  second  Youth  is  given ; 
The  light  upon  her  face  a  light  from  Heaven ' 
An  hour  like  this  is  worth  a  thousand  pass'd 
In  pomp  or  ease — 'T  is  present  to  the  last ! 
Years  glide  away  unfold — 'T  is  still  the  same  ' 
As  fresh,  as  fair  as  on  the  day  it  came !  « 

And  now  once  more  where  most  he  loved  to  tje 
In  his  own  fields — breathing  tranquillit}' — 
We  hail  him — not  less  happy.  Fox,  than  thee  I 
Thee  at  St.  Anne's  so  soon  of  care  beguiled. 
Playful,  sincere,  and  artless  as  a  child ! 
Thee,  who  wouldst  watch  a  bird's-nest  on  the  spray 
Through  the  gi-een  leaves  exploring,  day  bv  day. 

23 


16 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  oft  from  grove  to  grove,  from  seat  to  seat, 
With  thee  conversing  in  thy  loved  retreat, 
I  saw  the  sun  go  dowTi ! — Ah,  then  't  was  thine 
Ne'er  to  forget  some  volume  half  divine, 
Shakspeare's  or  Dryden's — llirough    the   chequer'd 

shade 
Borne  in  thy  hand  behind  thee  as  we  stray'd ; 
And  where  we  sate  (and  many  a  halt  we  made) 
To  read  there  with  a  fervor  all  thy  owii, 
And  in  thy  grand  and  melancholy  tone. 
Some  splendid  passage  not  to  thee  unknown, 
Fit  theme  for  long  discourse — Thy  bell  has  toll'd ! 
— But  in  thy  place  among  us  we  behold 
One  who  resembles  thee. 

'Tis  the  sixth  hour. 
The  village-clock  strikes  from  the  distant  tower. 
The  plowman  leaves  the  field  ;  the  traveller  hears, 
And  to  the  inn  spurs  forward.     Nature  wears 
Her  sweetest  smile  ;  the  day-star  in  the  west 
Yet  hovering,  and  the  thistie's  down  at  rest. 

And  such,  his  labor  done,  the  calm  He  knows. 
Whose  footsteps  we  have  followed.  Roimd  him  glows 
An  atmosphere  thai  brightens  to  the  last ; 
The  light,  that  shines,  reflected  from  the  Past, 
— And  from  the  Future  too!  Active  in  Thought 
Among  old  books,  old  friends ;  and  not  unsought 
By  the  wise  stranger — in  his  morning-hours, 
When  gentle  airs  stir  the  fresh-blowing  flowers, 
He  muses,  turning  up  the  idle  weed ; 
Or  prunes  or  grafts,  or  in  the  yellow  mead 
Watches  his  bees  at  hiving-time ;  and  now. 
The  ladder  resting  on  the  orchard-bough, 
Culls  the  delicious  fruit  that  hangs  in  air. 
The  purple  plum,  green  fig,  or  golden  pear, 
'Mid  sparkling  eyes,  and  hands  uplifted  there. 

At  night,  when  all,  assembling  round  the  fire. 
Closer  and  closer  draw  till  they  retire, 
A  tale  is  told  of  India  or  Japan, 
Of  merchants  from  Golcond  or  Astracan, 
What  time  wild  Nature  revell'd  unrostrain'd, 
And  Shibad  voyaged  and  the  Caliphs  reign'd : — 
Of  some  Norwegian,  while  the  icy  gale 
Rings  in  her  shrouds  and  beats  her  iron-sail. 
Among  the  snowy  Alps  of  Polar  seas 
Immovable — for  ever  there  to  freeze  ! 
Or  some  great  caravan,  from  well  to  well 
Wmding  as  darkness  on  the  desert  fell. 
In  their  long  march,  such  as  the  Prophet  bids, 
To  Mecca  from  the  land  of  PjTamids, 
And  in  an  instant  lost — a  hollow  wave 
Of  burning  sand  their  everlasting  grave ! — 
Now  the  scene  shifts  to  Venice — to  a  square 
Glittering  with  light,  all  nations  masking  there. 
With  light  reflected  on  the  tremulous  tide. 
Where  gondolas  in  gay  confusion  glide, 
Answermg  the  jest,  the  song  on  every  side  ; 
To  Naples  next — and  at  the  crowded  gate, 
Where  Grief  and  Fear  and  wild  Amazement  wait, 
Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire,  (26) 
Vesuvius  blazing  like  a  World  on  fire ! — 
Then,  at  a  sign  that  never  was  forgot, 
A  strain  breaks  forth  (who  hears  and  loves  it  not?) 
From  lute  or  organ !  'T  is  at  parting  given. 
That  in  their  slumbers  they  may  dream  of  Heaven 
Young  voices  mingling,  as  it  floats  along. 
In  Ti^can  air  or  Handel's  sacred  song  1 


And  She  inspires,  whose  beauty  shines  in  all , 
So  soon  to  weave  a  daughter's  coronal. 
And  at  the  nuptial  rite  smile  through  her  tears ; — 
So  soon  to  hover  round  her  full  of  feai-s, 
And  with  assurance  sweet  her  soul  revive 
In  child-birth — when  a  mother's  love  is  most  alive. 

No,  't  is  not  here  that  Solitude  is  knowTi. 
Through  the  wide  world  he  only  is  alone 
Who  lives  not  for  another.    Come  what  will, 
The  generous  man  has  his  companion  still ; 
The  cricket  on  his  hearth ;  the  buzzing  fly 
That  skims  his  roof,  or,  be  his  roof  the  sky, 
Still  with  its  note  of  gladness  passes  by : 
And,  in  an  iron  cage  condemn'd  to  dwell. 
The  cage  that  stands  within  the  dungeon-cell, 
He  feeds  his  spider — happier  at  the  worst 
Than  he  at  large  who  in  laimself  is  curst. 

O  thou  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind  (27) 
Streams  from  the  depth  of  ages  on  mankind, 
Streams  like  the  day — who,  angel-like,  hast  shed 
Thy  full  effulgence  on  the  hoary  head, 
Speaking  in  Cato's  venerable  Aoice, 
"  Look  up,  and  faint  not — faint  not,  but  rejoice  !' 
From  thy  Elysium  guide  him.     Age  has  now 
Stamp'd  with  its  signet  that  ingenuous  brow; 
And,  'mid  his  old  hereditary  trees. 
Trees  he  has  climb'd  so  oft,  he  sits  and  sees 
His  children's  children  playing  round  his  knees : 
Then  happiest,  youngest,  when  the  quoit  is  flung. 
When  side  by  side  the  archer"#)0\vs  are  strung ; 
His  to  prescribe  the  place,  adjudge  the  prize, 
En\7ing  no  more  the  yoimg  their  energies     - 
Than  they  an  old  man  when  his  words  are  wise ; 
His  a  delight  how  pure — without  alloy  ; 
Strong  in  their  strength,  rejoicing  in  their  joy ! 

Now  in  their  turn  assisting,  they  repay 
The  anxious  cares  of  many  and  many  a  day; 
And  now  by  those  he  loves  relieved,  restored, 
His  very  wants  and  weaknesses  afford 
A  feeling  of  enjoyment.     In  his  walks. 
Leaning  on  them,  how  oft  he  stops  and  talks. 
While  they  look  up !    Their  questions,  their  replies, 
Fresh  as  the  weUing  waters,  round  him  rise. 
Gladdening  his  spirit :  and,  his  theme  the  past. 
How  eloquent  he  is !  His  thoughts  flow  fast. 
And,  while  his  heart  (oh  can  the  heart  grow  old  ? 
False  are  the  tales  that  in  the  World  are  told !) 
Swells  in  his  voice,  he  knows  not  where  to  end ; 
Like  one  discoursing  of  an  absent  friend. 

But  there  are  moments  which  he  calls  his  own 
Then,  never  less  alone  than  when  alone. 
Those  that  he  loved  so  long  and  sees  no  more. 
Loved  and  still  loves — not  dead — but  gone  before. 
He  gathers  round  him ;  and  revives  at  wdll 
Scenes  in  liis  life-^that  breathe  enchanmient  still — 
That  come  not  now  at  dreary-  inter\-als — 
But  where  a  hght  as  from  the  Blessed  falls, 
A  light  such  guests  bring  ever — pure  and  holy — 
Lapping  the  soul  in  sweetest  melancholy. 

Ah  then  less  willing  (nor  the  choice  condemn) 

To  hve  with  others  than  to  think  on  them ! 

And  now  behold  him  up  the  hill  ascending, 
Memory  and  Hope  like  evening-stars  attending ; 
Sustain'd,  excited,  till  his  course  is  run. 
By  deeds  of  virtue  done  or  to  be  done. 

24 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


17 


When  on  his  couch  he  sinks  at  length  to  rest, 
Those  by  his  counsel  saved,  his  power  redress'd, 
Those  by  the  World  shunn'd  ever  as  unblest, 
At  whom  the  rich  man's  dog  growls  from  the  gate, 
But  whom  he  sought  out,  sitting  desolate. 
Come  and  stand  roimd — the  widow  with  her  child, 
As  when  she  first  forgot  her  tears  and  smiled  ! 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  see  not ;  but  he  sees, 
Sees  and  exults — Were  ever  dreams  like  these  ? 
They,  who  watch  by  him,  hear  not ;  but  he  hears. 
And  Earth  recedes,  and  Heaven  itself  appears ! 

'Tis  past !  That  hand  we  grasp'd,  alas,  in  vain ! 
Nor  shall  we  look  upon  his  face  again ! 
But  to  his  closing  eyes,  for  all  were  there, 
Nothing  was  wanting ;  and,  through  many  a  year, 
We  shall  remember  with  a  fond  delight 
The  words  so  precious  wliich  we  heard  to-night  ; 
His  parting,  though  awhile  our  sorrow  flows. 
Like  setting  smis  or  music  at  the  close ! 

Then  was  the  drama  ended.     Not  till  then, 
So  full  of  chance  and  change  the  lives  of  men, 
Could  we  pronounce  him  happy.     Then  secure 
From  pain,  from  grief,  and  all  that  we  endure. 
He  slept  in  peace — say  rather  soar'd  to  Heaven, 
Upborne  from  Earth  by  Him  to  whom  'tis  given 
In  his  right  hand  to  hold  the  golden  key 
That  opes  the  portals  of  Eternity. 
— When  by  a  good  man's  grave  I  muse  alone, 
Methinks  an  angel  sits  upon  the  stone ; 
Like  those  of  old,  on  that  thrice-hallow'd  night, 
Wlio  sate  and  wat'cfl^d  in  raiment  heavenly-bright ; 
And,  with  a  voice  inspiring  joy,  not  fear, 
Says,  pointing  upward,  that  he  is  not  here. 
That  he  is  risen ! 

But  the  day  is  spent; 
And  stars  are  kindhng  in  the  firmament. 
To  us  how  silent — though  like  ours  perchance 
Busy  and  full  of  life  and  circumstance  ; 
Where  some  the  paths  of  Wealth  and  Power  pursue. 
Of  Pleasure  some,  of  Happiness  a  few ; 
And,  as  the  sun  goes  round — a  sun  not  ours — 
While  from  her  lap  another  Nature  showers 
Gifts  of  her  own,  some  from  the  crowd  retire. 
Think  on  themselves,  within,  without  inquire ; 
At  distance  dwell  on  all  that  passes  there, 
All  tl  at  their  world  reveals  of  good  and  fair ; 
And,  as  they  wander,  picturing  things,  like  me. 
Not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  ought  to  be, 
Trace  out  the  Journey  through  their  little  Day, 
And  fondly  dream  an  idle  hour  away. 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  page  11,  col.  2. 
Our  pathway  leads  but  to  a  precipice. 
See  Bossuet,  Sermon  sur  la  Resurrection. 

Note  2,  page  11,  col.  2. 
We  fly;  no  resting  for  the  foot  we  find. 

"  I  have  considered,"  says  Solomon,  "all  the  works 

that  are  under  the  sun ;  and  behold,  all  is  vanitv-  and 

vexation  of  spirit."  But  who  believes  it,  till  Death  tells 

It  us  ?  It  is  Death  alone  that  can  suddenly  make  man 

4  C 


to  know  himself.  He  tells  the  proud  and  insolent, 
that  they  are  but  abjecis,  and  humbles  them  at  the 
instant.  He  takes  the  account  of  the  rich  man,  and 
proves  liim  a  beggar,  a  naked  beggar.  He  holds  a 
glass  befon  the  eyes  of  the  most  beautiful,  and  makes 
them  see  therein  their  deformity;  and  they  ac- 
Ivnowledge  it. 

O  eloquent,  just,  and  might\' Death!  whom  none 
could  advise,  thou  hast  persuaded ;  what  none  have 
dared,  thou  hast  done;  and  whom  all  the  world  have 
flattered,  thou  only  hast  cast  out  and  despised :  thou 
hast  drawn  together  all  the  far-stretched  greatness,  all 
the  pride,  cruelty  and  ambition  of  man,  and  covered 
it  all  over  with  these  two  narrow  words,  Hicjacel. 

Raleigh. 
Note  3,  page  11,  col.  2. 

Through  the  dim  curtains  of  Futurity. 
Fancy  can  hardly  forbear  to  conjecture  with  what 
temper  iNIilton  surveyed  the  silent  progress  of  liis 
work,  and  marked  his  reputation  stealing  its  way  in  a 
kind  of  subterraneous  current  through  fear  and  silence. 
I  camtot  but  conceive  him  calm  and  confident,  little 
disappointed,  not  at  all  dejected,  relying  on  his  own 
merit  with  steady  consciousness,  and  waiting,  without 
impatience,  the  vicissitudes  of  opinion,  and  the  im- 
partiality of  a  future  generation. — Johnson. 

After  line  57,  col.  2,  in  the  MS. 
O'er  place  and  time  we  triumph  ;  on  we  go, 
Ranging  in  thought  the  realms  above,  below; 
Yet,  ah,  how  httle  of  ourselves  we  know  I 
And  why  the  heart  beats  on,  or  how  the  brain 
Says  to  the  foot,  'Now  move,  now  rest  again,' 
From  age  to  age  we  search,  and  search  in  vain. 

Note  4,  page  12,  col.  1. 
like  the  stone 


That  sheds  awhile  a  lustre  all  its  own. 
See  "  Observations  on  a  diamond  that  shines  in  the 
dark." — Boyle's  Works,  i,  789. 

Note  5,  page  12,  col.  1. 
Schooled  and  trained  up  to  Wisdom  from  his  birth. 

Cicero,  in  his  Essay  De  Seneciute,  has  ara\\Ti  his 
images  from  the  better  walks  of  life  ;  and  Shakspeare, 
in  his  Seven  Ages,  has  done  so  too.  But  Shakspeare 
treats  his  subject  satirically;  Cicero  as  a  Philosophei 
In  the  venerable  portrait  of  Cato  we  discover  no 
traces  of  "  the  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon." 

Every  object  has  a  bright  and  a  dark  side;  and  I 
have  endeavored  to  look  at  things  as  Cicero  has  done. 
By  some  however  I  may  be  thought  to  have  followed 
too  much  my  own  dream  of  happiness ;  and  in  sucfe 
a  dream  indeed  I  have  often  passed  a  sohtary  hour 
It  was  castle-building  once ;  now  it  is  no  longer  so. 
But  whoever  would  try  to  realize  it,  would  not 
perhaps  repent  of  his  endeavor. 

Note  6,  page  12,  col.  1. 
The  hour  arrives,  the  moment  wished  and  feared. 
A  Persian  Poet  Jias  left  us  a  beautiful  thought  on 
this  subject,  which  the  reader,  if  he  has  not  met  with 
it,  will  be  glad  to  know,  and,  if  he  has,  to  remember. 
Thee  on  thy  mother's  knees,  a  new-born  child. 
In  tears  we  saw,  when  all  around  thee  smiled. 
So  live,  that,  sinking  in  thy  last  long  sleep. 
Smiles  may  be  thine,  when  all  around  thee  wepp. 
For  my  version  I  am  in  a  great  measure  indebted 
to  Sir  Wilham  Jones. 

25 


18 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  7,  page  12,  col.  2. 
"  These  are  my  Jewels ! " 
The  anecdote  here  alluded  to,  is  related  by  Valerius 
Maximus,  lib.  iv,  c.  4. 

Note  8,  page  12,  col.  2. 
"  Suffer  these  liule  ones  to  come  to  me !  " 
In  our  early  Youth,  while  yet  we  live  only  among 
those  we  love,  we  love  without  restraint,  and  our 
hearts  overflow  in  every  look,  word,  and  action.   But 
when  we  enter  the  world  and  are  repulsed  by  stran- 
gers, forgotten  by  friends,  we  grow  more  and  more 
timid  in  our  approaches  even  to  those  we  love  best. 
How  delightful  to  us  then  are  the  little  caresses  of 
children!  All  sincerity,  all  affection,  they  fly  into  our 
arms;   and  then,  and  then  only,  we  feel  our  first 
confidence,  our  first  pleasure. 

Note  9,  page  12,  col.  2. 

he  reveres 

The  brow  engraven  with  the  Thoughts  of  Years. 

This  is  a  law  of  Nature.  Age  was  anciently  synony- 
mous with  pow  er ;  and  we  may  always  observe  that 
the  old  are  held  in  more  or  less  honor  as  men  are 
more  or  less  virtuous.  "  Shame,"  says  Homer,  "  bids 
the  youth  beware  how  he  accost-s  the  man  of  many 
years."  "Thou  shalt  rise  up  before  the  hoary  head, 
and  honor  the  face  of  an  old  man." — LevUicus. 

Among  us,  says  a  philosophical  historian,  and 
wherever  birth  and  possessions  give  rank  and  au- 
thority, the  young  and  the  profligate  are  seen  continu- 
ally above  the  old  and  the  v^orthy:  there  Age  can  never 
find  its  due  respect.  But  among  many  of  the  ancient 
nations  it  was  otherwise  ;  and  they  reaped  the  benefit 
of  it.  "Rien  ne  maintient  plus  les  mceurs  qu'une 
extreme  subordination  des  jeuncs  gens  envers  les 
vieillards.  Les  uns  et  les  autres  seront  contenus,  ceux- 
la  par  le  respect  qu'iis  auront  pour  les  vieillards,  et 
ceux-ci  par  le  respect  qu'iis  auront  pour  eux-memes." 

MoNTESaUlEU. 

Note  10,  page  12,  col.  2. 
Like  Her  most  gentle,  most  unfortunate. 
Before  I  went  into  Germany,  I  came  to  Brodegate 
in  Leicestershire,  to  take  my  leave  of  that  noble  Lady 
Jane  Grey,  to  whom  I  was  exceeding  much  beholding. 
Her  parents,  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  with  all  the 
Household,  Gentlemen  and  Gentlewomen,  were 
hunting  in  the  park.  I  found  her  in  her  chamber, 
reading  Phajdo  Platonis  in  Greek,  and  that  with  as 
much  delight  as  some  Gentlemen  would  read  a  merry 
tale  in  Boccace.  After  salutation  and  duty  done,  with 
some  other  talk,  I  asked  her,  why  she  would  lose  such 
pastime  in  the  park?  Smiling,  she  answered  me,  "I 
wist,  all  their  sport  in  the  park  is  but  a  shadow  to  that 
{jleasure  that  I  find  in  Plato." — Roger  Ascham. 

Note  11,  page  12,  col.  2. 
Then  is  the  Age  of  Admiration. — 
Dante  in  his  old  age  was  pointed  out  to  Petrarch 
when  a  boy;  and  Dryden  to  Pope. 

Who  does  not  wish  that  Dante  and  Dryden  could 
have  known  the  value  of  the  homage  that  was  paid 
tliem,  and  foreseen  the  greatness  of  their  yoimg 
admirers  ? 

Note  12,  page  13,  col.  1. 

Scenes  such  as  Milton  sought,  but  sought  in  vain. 
He  had  arrived  at  Naples ;  and  was  preparing  to 


visit  Sicily  and  Greece,  when  hearing  of  the  trouble* 
in  England,  he  thought  it  proper  to  hasten  home. 

Note  13,  page  13,  col,  1. 
And  IVlilton's  self. 
I  began  thus  far  to  assent  .  .  to  an  inward  prompt 
ing  which  now  grew  daily  upon  me,  that  by  labor  and 
intent  study  (which  I  take  to  be  my  portion  in  this 
life),  joined  with  the  strong  propensity  of  nature,  I 
might  perhaps  leave  something,  so  written,  to  after 
times,  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die. — Milton 

Note  14,  page  13,  col.  1. 

't  was  at  matin-time. 

Love  and  devotion  are  said  to  be  nearly  allied 
Boccaccio  fell  in  love  at  Naples  in  the  church  of  St. 
Lorenzo;  as  Petrarch  had  done  at  Avignon  in  the 
church  of  St.  Clair. 

Note  15,  page  13,  col.  2. 
Lovely  before,  oh,  say  how  lovely  now ! 
Is  it  not  true,  that  the  young  not  only  appear  to  be 
but  really  are,  most  beautiful  in  the  presence  of  those 
they  love  ?   It  calls  forth  all  their  beauty. 

Note  16,  page  13,  col.  2. 

And  feeling  hearts — touch  them  but  rightly — pour 
A  thousand  melodies  unheard  before! 

Xenophon  has  left  us  a  delightful  instance  of  con* 
jugal  aflfection. 

The  king  of  Armenia  not  ftdfijjing  his  engagement, 
Cyrus  entered  the  country,  and,  having  taken  him 
and  all  his  family  prisoners,  ordered  them  instantly 
before  him.  Armenian,  said  he,  you  are  free ;  for  you 
are  now  sensible  of  your  error.  And  what  will  you 
give  me,  if  I  restore  your  wife  to  you  ? — All  that  I  am 
able.  What,  if  I  restore  your  children  ? — All  that  I 
am  able.  And  you,  Tigranes,  said  he,  turning  to  the 
son.  What  would  you  do,  to  save  your  wife  from 
servitude  ?  Now  Tigranes  was  but  lately  married, 
and  had  a  great  love  for  his  wife.  Cyrus,  he  replied, 
to  save  her  from  servitude,  I  would  willingly  lay 
down  my  life. 

Let  each  have  his  own  again,  said  Cyrus ;  and  when 
he  was  departed,  one  spoke  of  his' clemency ;  and 
another  of  his  valor ;  and  another  of  his  beauty,  and 
the  graces  of  his  person.  U}X)n  which,  Tigranes 
asked  his  wife,  if  she  thought  him  handsome.  Really, 
said  she,  I  did  not  look  at  him. — At  whom  then  did 
you  look  ? — At  him  who  said  he  would  lay  down  his 
life  for  me. —  Cyrojxpdia,  1.  iii. 

Note  ]  7,  page  14,  col.  2. 
He  goes,  and  Night  comes  as  it  never  came  ! 

These  circumstances,  as  well  as  some  others  that 
follow,  are  happily,  as  far  as  they  regard  England,  of 
an  ancient  date.  To  us  the  miseries  inflicted  by  i 
foreign  invader  are  now  kno\\'n  only  by  description. 
Many  generations  have  passed  away  since  our  coun- 
trywomen saw  the  smoke  of  an  enemy's  camp. 

But  the  same  passions  are  always  at  worl;  every- 
where, and  their  effects  are  always  nearly  the  same; 
though  the  circumstances  that  attend  them  are  in 
fhiitely  various. 

Note  18,  page  15,  col.  1. 
That  House  with  many  a  funeral-garland  hung. 

A  custom  in  some  of  our  country-churches. 

2G 


HUMAxN  LIFE. 


19 


jN'ote  19,  page  15,  col.  1. 
Soon  through  the  gadding  vine,  etc. 

An  English  breakfast;  which  may  well  excite  in 
others  what  in  Rousseau  continued  through  life,  nn 
gout  vif  pour  les  dejennes.  Cest  le  terns  de  la  jour- 
nee  oil  nous  sommes  les  plus  tranquilles,  oii  nous  cau- 
sons  le  plus  a  notre  aise. 

The  luxuries  here  mentioned,  familiar  to  us  as 
they  now  are,  were  almost  unknown  before  the 
Revolution. 

Note  20,  page  15,  col  2. 
Like  Hampden  struggling  in  his  Country's  cause. 

Zeuxis  IS  said  to  have  drawn  his  Helen  from  an 
assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  women ;  and  many 
a  writer  of  fiction,  in  forming  a  life  to  his  mind,  has 
recourse  to  the  brightest  moments  in  the  lives  of 
others. 

I  may  be  suspected  of  having  done  so  here,  and 
of  having  designed,  as  it  were,  from  living  models; 
but  by  making  an  allusion  now  and  then  to  those 
who  have  really  lived,  I  thought  I  should  give 
sontething  of  interest  to  the  picture,  as  well  as  better 
illustrate  my  meaning. 

Note  21,  page  15,  col.  2. 
On  through  that  gate  misnamed. 

Traitor's  gate,  the  water-gate  in  the  Tower  of 
London. 

Note  22,  page  15,  col.  2. 
Theo  to  the  place  of  trial. 

This  very  slight  sketch  of  Civil  Dissension  is 
taken  from  our  own  annals;  but,  for  an  obvious 
reason,  not  from  those  of  our  own  Age. 

The  persons  here  immediately  alluded  to  lived 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  reign  which 
Blaclvstone  has  justly  represented  as  wicked,  san- 
guinary, and  turbulent;  but  such  times  have  always 
afforded  the  most  signal  instances  of  heroic  courage 
and  ardent  affection. 

Gi^eat  reverses',  like  theirs,  lay  open  the  human 
heart.  They  occur  indeed  but  seldom  ;  yet  all  men 
are  liable  to  them. ;  all,  when  they  occur  to  others, 
make  them  more  or  less  their  own ;  and,  were  we 
to  describe  our  condition  to  an  inhabitant  of  some 
other  planet,  could  we  omit  what  forms  so  striking 
a  circumstance  in  human  life  ? 

Note  23,  page  15,  col.  2. 

and  alone. 

In  the  reign  of  William  the  Third,  the  law  was 
altered.  A  prisoner,  prosecuted  for  high  treason, 
may  now  make  his  full  defence  by  counsel. 

Note  24,  page  15,  col.  2. 
Like  that  sweet  Saint  who  sate  by  Russel's  side 
Under  the  Judgment-seat. 

Lord  Russel.  May  I  have  somebody  to  write,  to 
assist  ray  memory  ? 


Mr.  Attorneif-General.    Yes,  a  Servant. 

Lord  Chief  Justice.  Any  of  your  Servants  shall 
assist  you  in  \\Titing  anything  you  please  for  you. 

Lord  Russel.  My  Wife  is  here,  my  Lord,  to  do 
it. — State  Trials,  ii. 

Note  25,  page  15,  col.  2. 
Her  glory  now,  as  ever  her  delight. 

Epaminondas,  after  his  victory  at  Leuctra,  rejoiced 
most  of  all  at  the  pleasure  which  it  would  give  his 
father  and  mother;  and  who  would  not  have  envied 
them  their  feelings  ? 

Cornelia  was  called  at  Rome  the  Mother-in-law 
of  Scipio.  "  When,"  said  she  to  her  sons,  "  shall  I 
be  called  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi  ?" 

Note  26,  page  16,  col.  1. 
Lo,  on  his  back  a  Son  brings  in  his  Sire. 

An  act  of  filial  piety  represented  on  the  coins  of 
Catana,  a  Greek  city,  some  remains  of  which  are 
still  to  be  seen  at  the  foot  of  mount  ^tna.  The 
story  is  told  of  two  brothers,  who  in  this  manner 
saved  both  their  parents.  The  place  fi-om  which 
they  escaped  was  long  called  the  field  of  the  pious ; 
and  public  games  w  ere  annually  held  there  to  com- 
memorate the  event. 

Note  27,  page  16,  col.  2. 
Oh  thou,  all-eloquent,  whose  mighty  mind. 

Cicero.  It  is  remarkable  that,  among  the  comforts 
of  Old  Age,  he  has  not  mentioned  those  arising  from 
the  society  of  women  and  children.  Perhaps  the 
husband  of  Terentia  and  "  the  father  of  Marcus  felt 
something  on  the  subject,  of  which  he  was  willing 
to  spare  himself  the  recollection." 


Before  I  conclude,  I  would  say  something  in 
favor  of  the  old-fashioned  triplet,  which  I  have  here 
ventured  to  use  so  often.  Dryden  seems  to  have 
delighted  in  it,  and  in  many  of  his  most  admired 
poems  has  used  it  much  oftener  than  I  have  done, 
as  for  instance  in  the  Hind  and  Panther,'  and  in 
Theodore  and  Honoria,  where  he  introduces  it  three, 
four,  and  even  five  times  in  succession. 

If  I  have  erred  anywhere  in  the  structure  of  my 
verse  from  a  desire  to  follow  yet  earlier  and  higher 
examples,  I  rely  on  the  forgiveness  of  those  in  whose 
ear  the  music  of  our  old  versification  is  still  sounding. 


1  Pope  used  to  mention  this  poem  as  the  most  correct  speci- 
men of  Dryden's  versification.  It  was  indeed  written  when  he 
had  completely  formed  his  manner,  and  may  be  supposed  to 
exhibit,  negligence  excepted,  his  deliberate  and  ultimate  scheme 
of  metre. — Jolinson. 


sin  ?2piutlt  tn  a  iFttcntr. 


Villula, 


-et  pauper  agelle. 


Me  tibi,  et  hos  una  mecum,  et  quos  semper  amavi, 
Commendo. 


PREFACE. 

Every  reader  turns  with  pleasure  to  those  pas- 
sages of  Horace,  and  Pope,  and  Boileau,  which  de- 
scribe how  they  lived  and  where  they  dwelt  ,•  and 
W'hich,  being  interspersed  among  their  satirical  writ- 
ings, derive  a  secret  and  irresistible  grace  from  the 
contrast,  and  are  admirable  examples  of  what  in 
J*aintmg  is  termed  repose. 

We  have  admittance  to  Horace  at  all  hours.  We 
enjoy  the  company  and  conversation  at  his  table ;  and 
his  suppers,  like  Plato's,  "  non  solum  in  praisentia,  sed 
etiam  postero  die  jucimdae  sunt."  But  when  we  look 
round  as  we  sit  there,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  Sabine 
farm,  and  not  in  a  Roman  villa.  His  windows  have 
every  charm  of  prospect ;  but  his  furniture  might  have 
descended  from  Cincinnatus;  and  gems,  and  pictures, 
and  old  marbles,  are  mentioned  by  him  more  than 
once  with  a  seeming  indifference. 

His  English  Imitator  thought  and  felt,  perhaps,  more 
correctly  on  the  subject ;  and  embellished  his  garden 
and  grotto  with  great  industry  and  success.  But  to 
these  alone  he  sohcits  our  notice.  On  the  ornaments 
of  his  house  he  is  silent ;  and  he  appears  to  have  re- 
served all  the  minuter  touches  of  his  pencil  for  the 
library,  the  chapel,  and  the  banqueting-room  of 
Timon.  "  Le  savoir  de  notrc  sidcle,"  says  Rousseau, 
"  tend  beaucoup  plus  a  detruire  qu'a  edifier.  On  cen- 
sure d'uri  ton  de  maitre ;  pour  proposer,  il  en  faut 
prendre  un  autre." 

It  is  the  design  of  this  Epistle  to  illustrate  the  virtue 
of  True  Taste;  and  to  show  how  little  she  requires  to 
secure,  not  only  the  comforts,  but  even  the  elegancies 
of  life.  True  Taste  is  an  excellent  Economist.  She 
confines  her  choice  to  few  objects,  and  delights  in 
producing  great  effects  by  small  means :  while  False 
Taste  is  for  ever  sigliing  after  the  new  and  the  rare ; 
and  reminds  us,  in  her  works,  of  the  Scholar  of 
Apelles,  who,  not  being  able  to  paint  his  Helen 
beautiful,  determined  to  make  her  fine. 


ARGUMENT. 

An  invitation — ^The  approach  to  a  Villa  described — Its 
situation — Its  few  apartments — furnished  with  casts 
from  the  Antique,  etc. — ^The  dining-room — The 
library — A  cold-bath — A  winter-walk — A  sum- 
mer-walk— ^The  invitation  renewed — Conclusion. 


Whex,  with  a  Reaumur's  skill,  thy  curious  mind 
Has  class'd  the  insect-tribes  of  human  kind, 
Each  with  its  busy  hum,  or  gilded  wing. 
Its  subtle  web- work,  or  its  venom'd  sting  ; 
liCt  me,  to  claim  a  few  unvalued  hours, 


Point  out  the  green  lane  rough  with  fern  and  flowers  , 

The  sheltered  gate  that  opens  to  my  field, 

And  the  white  front  through  mingling  elms  reveal'd 

In  vain,  alas,  a  village-friend  invites 
To  simple  comforts,  and  domestic  rites, 
When  the  gay  months  of  CaiTiival  resume 
Their  anrmal  round  of  glitter  and  perfume ; 
When  London  hails  thee  to  its  splendid  mart, 
Its  hives  of  sweets,  and  cabuiets  of  art ; 
And,  lo,  majestic  as  thy  manly  song. 
Flows  the  full  tide  of  human  life  along. 

Still  must  my  partial  pencil  love  to  dwell 
On  the  home-prospects  of  my  hermit-cell ; 
The  mossy  pales  that  skirt  the  orchard-green, 
Here  hid  by  shrub- wood,  there  by  glimpses  seen ; 
And  tlie  brown  pathway,  that,  with  careless  flow. 
Sinks,  and  is  lost  among  the  trees  below. 
Still  must  it  trace  (the  flattering  tints  forgive) 
Each  fleeting  charm  that  bids  the  landscape  live. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass  (1) 
Browsing  the  hedge  by  fits  the  pannier'd  ass  ; 
The  idling  shepherd-boy,  with  rude  delight. 
Whistling  his  dog  to  mark  the  pebble's  flight  ; 
And  in  her  kerchief  blue  the  cottage-maid, 
With  brimming  pitcher  from  the  shadowy  glade. 
Far  to  the  south  a  mountain-vale  retires, 
Rich  in  its  groves,  and  glens,  and  village-spires : 
Its  upland-lawns,  and  cliffs  with  foliage  hung, 
Its  wizard-stream,  nor  nameless  nor  tmsung  : 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day,  (2) 
What  scenes  of  glory  burst,  and  melt  away ! 

When  April-verdure  springs  in  Grosvenor-square 
And  the  furr'd  Beauty  comes  to  winter  there, 
She  bids  old  Nature  mar  the  plan  no  more ; 
Yet  still  the  seasons  circle  as  before. 
Ah,  still  as  soon  the  young  Aurora  plays, 
Though  moons  and  flambeaux  trail  their  broadest  blaze; 
As  soon  the  sky-lark  pours  his  mafin-song. 
Though  evening  lingers  at  the  mask  so  long. 

There  let  her  strike  with  momentary  ray, 
As  tapers  shine  their  little  lives  away ; 
There  let  her  practise  from  herself  to  steal. 
And  look  the  happiness  she  does  not  feel  ; 
The  ready  smile  and  bidden  blush  employ 
At  Faro-routs  that  dazzle  to  destroy : 
Fan  with  affected  ease  the  essenced  air, 
And  lisp  of  fashions  with  tmmeaning  stare. 
Be  thine  to  meditate  a  humbler  flight, 
\^^ien  morning  fills  the  fields  with  rosy  light ; 
Be  thine  to  blend,  nor  thine  a  vulgar  aim, 
Repose  with  dignity,   with  quiet  fame. 

Here  no  state-chambers  in  long  line  unfold. 
Bright  with  broad  mirrors,  rough  with  fretted  gold , 
Yet  modest  ornament,  vidth  use  combined, 
Attracts  the  eye  to  exercise  the  mind. 

28 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND. 


21 


Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  re- 
quires, (3) 
"Who  leads  a  life  of  satisfied  desires. 

What  though  no  marble  breathes,  no  canvas  glows. 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows !  (4) 
Be  mine  to  bless  the  more  mechanic  skill, 
That  stamps,  renews,  and  multiplies  at  will  ; 
And  cheaply  circulates,  tlu-ough  distant  chmes, 
The  fairest  rehcs  of  the  purest  times. 
Here  from  the  mould  to  conscious  being  start 
Those  finer  forms,  the  miracles  of  art ; 
Here  chosen  gems,  imprest  on  sulphur,  shine, 
That  slept  for  ages  in  a  second  mine ; 
And  here  the  faithful  graver  dares  to  trace 
A  Michael's  grandeur,  and  a  Raphael's  grace ! 
Thy  Gallery,  Florence,  gilds  my  humble  walls, 
And  ray  low  roof  the  Vatican  recalls ! 

Soon  as  the  morning-dream  my  pillow  flies. 
To  waking  sense  what  brighter  visions  rise ! 
O  mark !  again  the  courses  of  the  Sun, 
At  Guide's  call,  (5)  their  round  of  glory  run ! 
Again  the  rosy  Hours  resume  their  flight, 
Obscured  and  lost  in  floods  of  golden  light ! 

Bui  could  tliine  erring  friend  so  long  forget 
(Sweet  source  of  pensive  joy  and  fond  regret) 
That  here  its  warmest  hues  the  pencil  flings, 
Lo !  here  the  lost  restores,  the  absent  brings  ; 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered  (6) 
Rise  round  the  board  their  social  smile  endear'd  ? 

Selected  shelves  shall  claim  thy  studious  hours ; 
There  shall  thy  ranging  mind  be  fed  on  flowers ! ' 
There,  while  the  shaded  lamp's  mild  lustre  streams. 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams  ;  (7) 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there,  (8) 
Pause,  and  his  featui-es  with  his  thoughts  compare. 
— Ah,  most  that  Art  my  grateful  rapture  calls. 
Which  breathes  a  soul  into  the  silent  walls  ;  2 
Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue,  (9) 
All  on  whose  words  departed  nations  himg ; 
Still  prompt  to  charm  with  many  a  converse  sweet ; 
Guides  in  the  world,  companions  in  retreat ! 

Though  my  thatcli'd  bath  no  rich  Mosaic  knows, 
A  limpid  spring  with  imfelt  current  flows. 
Emblem  of  Life  !  which,  still  as  we  survey. 
Seems  motionless,  yet  ever  glides  away ! 
The  shadowy  walls  record,  with  Attic  art. 
The  strength  and  beauty  that  its  waves  impart. 
Here  Thetis,  bending,  with  a  mother's  fears 
Dips  her  dear  boy,  whose  pride  restrains  his  tears. 
There,  Venus,  rising,  shrinks  with  sweet  surprise. 
As  her  fair  self  reflected  seems  to  rise ! 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life, 
These  eye-lids  open  to  the  rising  ray, 
And  close,  when  nature  bids,  at  close  of  day. 
Here,  at  the  dawn,  the  kindling  landscape  glows ; 
There  noon-day  levees  call  from  faint  repose. 
Here  the  flush'd  wave  flings  back  the  parting  light  ; 
There  ghmmermg  lamps  anticipate  the  night. 


When  from  his  classic  dreams  the  student  steals, ' 

Amid  the  buzz  of  crowds,  the  whirl  of  wheels, 

To  muse  umioticed — while  around  him  press 

The  meteor-forms  of  equipage  and  dress  ; 

Alone,  in  wonder  lost,  he  seems  to  stand 

A  very  stranger  in  his  native  land ! 

And  (tliough  perchance  of  current  coin  possest, 

And  modern  phrase  by  living  lips  exprest) 

Like  those  blest  Youths,  (10)  forgive  the  fabling  page, 

Whose  blameless  lives  deceived  a  twilight  age. 

Spent  in  sweet  slumbers ;  till  the  miner's  spade 

Unclosed  the  cavern,  and  the  morning  play'd. 

Ah!  what  their  strange  sm-prise,  their  wild  delight! 

New  arts  of  fife,  new  manners  meet  their  sight ! 

In  a  new  world  they  wake,  as  from  the  dead ; 

Yet  doubt  the  trance  dissolved,  the  vision  fled ! 

O  come,  and,  rich  in  intellectual  wealth, 
Blend  thought  with  exercise,  with  Imowledge  health" 
Long,  in  this  shelter'd  scene  of  letter 'd  talk. 
With  sober  step  repeat  the  pensive  walk  ; 
Nor  scorn,  when  graver  triflings  fail  to  please, 
The  cheap  amusements  of  a  mind  at  ease ; 
Here  every  care  in  sweet  oblivion  cast. 
And  many  an  idle  hour — not  idly  pass'd. 

No  tuneful  echoes,  ambush'd  at  ray  gate. 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great  (11) 
Vain  of  its  various  page,  no  Album  breathes 
The  sigh  that  Friendship  or  the  Muse  bequeaths. 
Yet  some  good  Genii  o'er  my  hearth  preside, 
Oft  the  far  friend,  with  secret  spell,  to  guide ; 
And  there  I  trace,  when  the  grey  evening  lours, 
A  silent  chronicle  of  happier  hours ! 

AVhen  Christmas  revels  in  a  world  of  snow, 
And  bids  her  berries  blush,  her  carols  flow  ; 
His  spangling  shower  when  Frost  the  wizard  flings 
Or,  borne  in  ether  blue,  on  viewless  wings. 
O'er  the  white  pane  his  silvery  foliage  weaves, 
And  gems  with  icicles  the  sheltering  eves ; 
— Thy  muffled  friend  his  nectarine-wall  pursues. 
What  time  the  sun  the  yellow  crocus  wooes. 
Screened  from  tlie  arrowy  North ;  and  duly  hies  2 
To  meet  the  morning-rumor  as  it  flies ; 
To  range  the  murmuring  market-place,  and  view 
The  motley  groups  that  faithful  Teniers  drew. 

When  Spring  bursts  forth  in  blossoms  tlirough  the 
vale. 
And  her  wild  music  triumphs  on  the  gale. 
Oft  w-ith  my  book  I  muse  from  stile  to  stile ;  ^ 
Oft  in  my  porch  the  listless  noon  beguile. 
Framing  loose  numbers,  till  declining  day 
Through  the  green  trellis  shoots  a  crimson  ray ; 
Till  the  West-wind  leads  on  the  tv^-ilight  hours. 
And  shakes  the  fragrant  bells  of  closing  flowers. 

Nor  boast,  O  Choisy !  seat  of  soft  delight, 
The  secret  charm  of  thy  voluptuous  night. 
Vain  is  the  blaze  of  wealth,  the  pomp  of  power ! 
Lo,  here,  attendant  on  the  shadowy  hour, 
Thy  closet-supper,  served  by  hands  unseen. 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene,  (12) 


1 apis  Matinae 

More  modoque 

Grata  carpentis  thytna Hor. 

2  Postea  verb  qukm  Tyrannio  mihi  libros  disposuit,  mens  ad- 
dita  videtur  raeis  aedibus. — Cic. 


1  Ingenium,  sibi  quod  vacuas  desumsit  Athenas, 
Et  studiis  annos  septem  dedit,  insenuitque 
Libris  et  curis,  statua  taciturnius  exit 
Plerumque Hor. 

2  Fallacem  circura,  vespertinumque  pereno 
Saepe  forum.  ffor. 

3  Tantot  un  livre  en  main,  errant  dans  les  prairies—* 

BoUeau- 

29 


22 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  hail  our  coming.     Not  a  step  profane 
Dares,  with  rude  sound,  the  cheerful  rite  restrain ; 
And,  while  the  frugal  banquet  glows  reveal'd, 
Pure  and  un bought,' — the  natives  of  my  field  ; 
While  blusliing  fruits  through  scatter'd  leaves  invite, 
StiL  clad  in  bloom,  and  veil'd  in  azure  light ! 
With  wine,  as  rich  in  years  as  Horace  smgs, 
With  water,  clear  as  his  own  fountain  flings, 
The  shifting  side-board  plays  its  humbler  part, 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art.  (13) 

Thus,  in  tliis  calm  recess,  so  richly  fraught 
With  mental  light,  and  luxury  of  thought. 
My  life  steals  on ;  (0  could  it  blend  with  thine !) 
Careless  my  course,  yet  not  without  design. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide,  (14) 
The  light  raft  dropping  with  the  silent  tide ; 
So,  till  the  laughing  scenes  are  lost  in  night, 
The  busy  people  wing  their  various  flight. 
Culling  minumber'd  sweets  from  nameles'^  flowers. 
That  scent  the  A-ineyard  in  its  purple  hours. 

Rise,  ere  the  watch-relie\-ing  clarions  play, 
Caught  through  St,  James's  groves  a  blush  of  day ;  (15) 
Ere  its  full  voice  the  choral  anthem  flings 
Through  trophied  tombs  of  heroes  and  of  kings. 
Haste  to  the  tranquil  shade  of  learned  ease,^ 
Though  skill'd  alike  to  dazzle  and  to  please ; 
Though  each  gay  scene  be  searched  with  anxious  eye, 
JVor  thy  shut  door  be  pass'd  without  a  sigh. 

If,  when  this  roof  shall  know  thy  friend  no  more, 
Some,  form'd  like  thee,  should  once,  like  thee,  explore; 
Invoke  the  lares  of  this  loved  retreat, 
And  his  lone  walks  imprint  with  pilgrim-feet ; 
Then  be  it  said,  (as,  vain  of  better  daj^s, 
Some  grey  domestic  prompts  the  partial  praise) 
"  Unknown  he  lived,  unenvied,  not  vmblest ; 
Reason  his  guide,  and  Happiness  his  guest. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  his  moral  page. 
We  trace  the  manners  of  a  purer  age. 
His  soul,  with  thirst  of  genuine  glory  fraught, 
Scom'd  the  felse  lustre  of  licentious  thought. 
— One  fair  asylum  from  the  world  he  knew. 
One  chosen  seat,  that  charms  with  various  ^-iew  I 
Who  boasts  of  more  (believe  the  serious  strain) 
Sighs  for  a  home,  and  sighs,  alas  I  in  vam. 
Through  each  he  roves,  the  tenant  of  a  day, 
A.nd,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away!"  (16) 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  20,  col.  2. 
Oft  o'er  the  mead,  at  pleasing  distance,  pass. 
Cosmo  of  Medicis  took  most  pleasure  in  his  Apen- 
iiine  \-illa,  because  all  that  he  commanded  from  its 
v«.indows  was  exclusively  his  own.  How  unlike  the 
wise  Athenian,  who,  when  he  had  a  farm  to  sell, 
directed  the  crier  to  proclaim,  as  its  best  recommen- 
ilation,  that  it  had  a  good  neighborhood. — Plut.  in 
lit.  ThemisL 

Note  2,  page  20,  col.  2. 
And  through  the  various  year,  the  various  day. 
Horace  commends  the  house,  "  longos  qus  prospicit 

1  — dapes  inemptas. — Hor. 

2  Innocuas  amo  delicias  doctamque  qnietem 


agros."    Distant  views  contain  the  greatest  variety 
both  in  themselves  and  in  their  accidental  variations. 
Note  3,  page  21,  col.  1. 
Small  change  of  scene,  small  space  his  home  requires. 
Many  a  great  man,  in  passing  through  the  apart- 
ments of  his  palace,  has  made  the  melancholy  reflec- 
tion of  the  venerable  Cosmo  :  "  Questa  e  troppo  gran 
casa  a  si  poco  famiglia." — Mach.  1st.  Fior.  lib.  vii. 

"  Parva,  sed  apta  mihi,"  was  A  riosto's  inscription 
over  his  door  in  Ferrara ;  and  who  can  wish  to  say 
more  ?  "  I  confess,"  says  Cowley,  "  I  love  littleness 
almost  in  all  tilings.  A  little  convenient  estate,  a 
little  cheerful  house,  a  little  company,  and  a  very 
little  feast." — Essay  vi. 

When  Socrates  was  asked  why  he  had  built  for 
himself  so  small  a  house,  "  Small  as  it  is,"  he  replied, 
"  I  wish  I  could  fiU  it  with  friends." — Ph.edrus,  1. 
iii,  9. 

These  indeed  are  all  that  a  wise  man  would  de- 
sire to  assemble  ;  "  for  a  crowd  is  not  company,  and 
faces  are  but  a  galler}'  of  pictures,  and  talk  but  a 
tinkling  cjnnbal,  where  there  is  no  love." 
Note  4,  page  21,  col.  1. 
From  every  point  a  ray  of  genius  flows ! 
By  this  means,  when  all  nature  wears  a  louring 
countenance,  I  withdraw  myself  into  the  visionary 
worlds  of  art ;  where  I  meet  w  ith  sliining  landscapes, 
gilded  triumphs,  beautiful  faces,  and  all  those  other 
objects  that  fill  the  mind  with  gay  ideas,  etc.  Addison. 
It  is  remarkable  that  Antony,  in  his  adversity, 
passed  some  time  in  a  small  but  splendid  retreat, 
which  he  called  his  Timoniura,  and  from  which 
might  originate  the   idea  of  the  Parisian  Boudoir, 
that  favorite  apartment,  oil  Von  se  retire  pour  etre  seid, 
inais  oil  Von  ne  boude  point. — Strabo,  1.  xvii.    PLtJT. 
in  Vit.  Anton. 

Note  5,  page  21,  col.  1. 
At  Guido's  call,  etc. 
Alluding  to  liis  celebrated  fresco  in  the  Rospigliosi 
Palace  at  Rome. 

Note  6,  page  21,  col.  1. 
And  still  the  Few  best  loved  and  most  revered. 
The  dining-room  is  dedicated  to  Conviviality ;  or, 
as  Cicel-o  somewhere  expresses  it,  Commimitati  vitae 
atque  Aictiis."  There  Ave  wish  most  for  the  society 
of  our  friends  ;  and,  perhaps,  in  their  absence,  most 
require  their  portraits. 

The  moral  advantages  of  this  furniture  may  be 
illustrated  by  the  prett\'  story  of  an  Athenian  cour- 
tesan,  "  who,  in  the  midst  of  a  riotous  banquet  with 
her  lovers,  accidentally  cast  her  eye  on  the  portrait 
of  a  philosopher,  that  hung  opposite  to  her  seat :  the 
happy  character  of  temperance  and  virtue  struck  her 
\Aith  so  lively  an  image  of  her  own  unwortliiness, 
that  she  instantly  quitted  the  room;  and,  retiring 
home,  became  ever  after  an  example  of  temperance, 
as  she  had  been  before  of  debauchery." 
Note  7,  page  21,  col.  1. 
Read  ancient  books,  or  dream  inspiring  dreams. 
The  reader  will  here  remember  that  passage  of 
Horace,  Nunc  veterum  libris,  nunc  somno,  etc.  which 
was  inscribed  by  Lord  Chesterfield  on  the  frieze  of 
his  hbrarj'. 

Note  8,  page  21,  col.  1. 
And,  when  a  sage's  bust  arrests  thee  there. 
Siquidera  non  solum  ex  auro  argentove,  aut  certeex 

30 


AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  FRIEND. 


23 


Ere  in  bibliothecis  dicantur  illi,  quorum  immortales 
animae  in  iisdem  locis  ibi  loquuntur:  quinimo  eliam 
quae  non  sunt,  finguntur,  pariuntque  desideria  non 
traditi  vultus,  sicut  in  Homero  evenil.  Quo  majus 
(ut  equidem  arbitror)  nullum  est  felicilatis  specimen, 
quam  semper  oranes  scire  cupere,  qualis  fuerit  ali- 
quis. — Plin.  Nat.  Hist. 

Cicero  speaks  with  pleasure  of  a  little  seat  under 
Aristotle  in  the  library  of  Atticus.  "  Literis  sustentor 
et  recreor ;  maloque  in  ilia  tua  sedecula,  quam  habes 
sub  imagine  Aristotelis,  sedere  quam  in  istorura  sella 
curuli !" — Ep.  ad  Alt.  iv,  10. 

Nor  should  we  forget  that  Dr}'den  drew  inspira- 
tion from  the  "majestic  face"  of  Shakspeare ;  and 
that  a  portrait  of  Newton  was  the  only  ornament 
of  the  closet  of  Buffon. — Ep.  to  Kneller.  Voyage  a 
Monlbarl. 

In  the  chamber  of  a  man  of  genius  we 
Write  all  down : 

Such  and  such  pictures ; — there  the  window 

-the  arras,  figures. 

Why,  such  and  such. 

•  Note  9,  page  21,  col.  1. 

Which  gathers  round  the  Wise  of  every  Tongue. 

Quis  tantis  non  gaudeat  et  glorietur  hospitibus, 
exclaims  Petrarch. — Speclarc,  etsi  nihil  aliud,  certe 
juvat. — Homeriis  apud  me  mutus,  imo  vero  ego  apud 
ilium  surd  us  sura.  Gaudeo  tamen  vel  aspectii  solo, 
et  saepe  ilium  amplexus  ac  suspirens  dico:  O  magne 
vir,  etc. — Epist.  Var.  lib.  20. 

Note  10,  page  21,  col.  2. 
Like  those  blest  Youths. 
See  the  Legend  of  the  Seven  Sleepers. — Gibbon, 
e.  33. 

Note  11,  page  21,  col.  2. 
Catch  the  blest  accents  of  the  wise  and  great. 
Mr.  Pope  delights  in  enumerating  his  illustrious 
guests.  Nor  is  this  an  exclusive  privilege  of  the 
poet.  The  Medici  Palace  at  Florence  exhibits  a 
long  and  imposing  catalogue.  "  Semper  hi  parietes 
columnaeque  eruditis  vocibus  resonuerunt." 

Another  is  also  preserved  at  Chanleloup.  the  seat 
of  the  Duke  of  Choiseul. 

Note  12,  page  21,  col.  2. 
Sheds,  like  an  evening-star,  its  ray  serene. 
At  a  Roman  supper,  statues  were  sometimes  em- 
ployed to  hold  the  lamps. 

— Aurea  sunt  juvenum  simulacra  per  sedeis, 
Lampadas  igniferas  manibus  retinentia  dcxtris. 

lAicr.  ii,  24. 
A  fashion  as  old  as  Homer! — Orhjss.  vii,  100. 

On  the  proper  degree  and  distribution  of  light,  we 
may  consult  a  great  master  of  effect.  11  hime  grande, 
ed  alto,  e  non  troppo  potente,  saru  quello,  che  ren- 
dera  le  particole  de'  corpi  moho  grate. — Tratt.  della 
Piitura  di  Lioxardo  di  Vinci,  c.  xli. 


Hence  every  artist  requires  a  broad  and  high 
light.  Hence  also,  in  a  banquet-scene,  the  most 
picturesque  of  all  poets  has  thrown  his  light  from 
the  ceiling. — ^-En.  i,  726. 

And  hence  the  "starry  lamps"  of  Milton,  that 


-from  the  arched  roof 


Pendent  by  subtle  magic,- 
-yielded  hght 


As  from  a  sky. 
Note  13,  page  22,  col.  1. 
Beyond  the  triumphs  of  a  Loriot's  art. 

At  the  petits  soupers  of  Choisy  were  first  intro- 
duced those  admirable  pieces  of  mechanism,  after 
wards  carried  to  perfection  by  Loriot,  the  Confidente 
and  the  Servante ;  a  table  and  a  side-board,  which 
descended  and  rose  again  covered  with  viands  and 
wines.  And  thtis  the  most  luxurious  Court  in  Eu- 
rope, after  all  its  boasted  refinements,  was  glad  to 
return  at  last,  by  this  singular  contrivance,  to  the 
quiet  and  privacy  of  humble  life. —  Vie  privee  de 
Louis  XV,  tom.  ii,  p.  43. 

Between  1.  10,  and  1.  11,  col.  1,  were  these  lines, 
since  omitted  : 

Hail,  sweet  Society  !  in  crowds  unknown. 

Though  the  vain  world  would  claim  thee  for  its  own. 

Still  where  thy  small  and  cheerful  converse  flows, 

Be  mine  to  enter,  ere  the  circle  close. 

When  in  retreat  Fo.\  lays  his  thunder  by. 

And  Wit  and  Taste  their  mingled  charms  supply; 

When  Siddons,  born  to  melt  and  freeze  the  heart, 

Performs  at  home  her  more  endearing  part ; 

When  he,  who  best  interprets  to  mankind 

The  winged  messengers  from  mind  to  mind, 

Leans  on  his  spade,  and,  playful  as  profound, 

His  genius  sheds  its  evening-sunshine  round. 

Be  mine  to  listen  ;  pleased  yet  not  elate. 

Ever  too  modest  or  too  proud  to  rate 

Myself  by  my  companions,  self-compell'd 

To  earn  the  station  that  in  life  I  held. 

They  v^ere  written  in  1796. 

Note  14,  page  22,  col.  1. 
So  through  the  vales  of  Loire  the  bee-hives  glide. 
An  allusion  to  the  floating  bee-house,  or  barge 
laden  with  bee-hives,  which  is  seen  in  some  parts 
of  France  and  Piedmont. 

Note  15,  page  22,  col.  1. 

Caught  through  St.  James's  groves  at  blush  of  day. 

After  this  line  in  the  MS. 

Groves  that  Belinda's  star  illumines  still. 
And  ancient  Courts  and  faded  splendors  fill. 

Note  16,  page  22,  col.  1. 
And,  with  the  swallow,  wings  the  year  away  ! 
It  was  the  boast  of  Lucullus  that  he  changed  hia 
climate  with  the  birds  of  passage. — Plut.  in  Vit 
Lucull. 

How  often  must  he  have  felt  the  truth  here  in 
culcated,  that  the  master  of  many  houses  has  no 
I  home  I  31 


3^t({Xitlint. 


I. 

'T  WAS  Autumn ;  through  Provence  had  ceased 

The  vintage,  and  the  vintage-feast. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  the  hill, 

The  moon  was  up,  and  all  was  still, 

And  from  the  convent's  neighboring  tower 

The  clock  had  toll'd  the  midnight-hour, 

When  Jacqueline  came  forth  alone. 

Her  kerchief  o'er  her  tresses  thrown ; 

A  guilty  thing  and  full  of  fears. 

Yet  ah,  how  lovely  in  her  tears ! 

She  starts,  and  what  has  caught  her  eye  ? 

What — but  her  shadow  gliding  by  ? 

She  stops,  she  pants;  with  lips  apart 

She  listens — to  her  beating  heart ! 

Then,  through  the  scanty  orchard  stealing, 

The  clustering  boughs  her  track  concealing, 

She  flies,  nor  casts  a  thought  behind, 

But  gives  her  terrors  to  the  wind ; 

Flies  from  her  home,  the  humble  sphere 

Of  all  her  joys  and  sorrows  here, 

Her  father's  house  of  mountain-stone, 

And  by  a  mountain-vine  o'ergrown. 

At  such  an  hour  in  such  a  night, 

So  calm,  so  clear,  so  heavenly  bright, 

Who  would  have  seen,  and  not  confess'd 

It  looked  as  all  within  were  blest  ? 

What  will  not  woman,  when  she  loves  ? 

Yet  lost,  alas,  who  can  restore  her  ? — 

She  lifts  the  latch,  the  wicket  moves ; 

And  now  the  world  is  all  before  her. 

Up  rose  St.  Pierre,  when  morning  shone  ; 
And  Jacqueline,  his  child,  was  gone ! 
Oh  what  the  madd'ning  thought  that  came  ? 
Dishonor  coupled  with  his  name ! 
By  Conde  at  Rocroy  he  stood ; 
By  Turenne,  when  the  Rhine  ran  blood  ; 
Two  banners  of  Castile  he  gave 
Aloft  in  Notre  Dame  to  wave ; 
Nor  did  thy  Cross,  St.  Louis,  rest 
Upon  a  purer,  nobler  breast. 
He  slung  his  old  sword  by  his  side. 
And  snatch'd  his  staff  and  rush'd  to  save  ; 
Then  sunk — and  on  his  threshold  cried, 
"  Oh  lay  me  in  my  grave  ! 

— Constance  !  Claudine  !  where  were  ye  then  ? 
But  stand  not  there.    Away !  away ! 
Thou,  Frederic,  by  thy  father  stay. 
Though  old,  and  now  forgot  of  men. 
Both  must  not  leave  him  in  a  day." 
Then,  and  he  shook  his  hoary  head, 
"  Unhappy  in  thy  youth !"  he  said. 
"  Call  as  thou  wilt,  thou  call'st  in  vain  ; 
No  voice  sends  back  thy  name  again. 
To  mourn  is  all  thou  hast  to  do  ; 
Thy  play-mate  lost,  and  teacher  too." 

And  who  but  she  could  soothe  the  boy, 
Or  turn  his  tears  to  tears  of  joy  ? 
Long  had  she  kiss'd  him  as  he  slept. 
Long  o'er  his  pillow  hung  and  wept; 


And,  as  she  pass'd  her  father's  door, 
She  stood  as  she  would  stir  no  mrre. 
But  she  is  gone,  and  gone  for  ever ! 
No,  never  shall  they  clasp  her — never! 
They  sit  and  listen  to  their  fears ; 
And  he,  who  through  the  breach  had  led 
Over  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Shakes  if  a  cricket's  cry  he  hears ! 

Oh !  she  was  good  as  she  was  fair ; 
None — none  on  earth  above  her  ! 
x4s  pure  in  thought  as  angels  are, 
To  know  her  was  to  love  her. 
When  little,  and  her  eyes,  her  voice. 
Her  every  gesture  said  "  rejoice," 
Her  coming  was  a  gladness ; 
And,  as  she  grew,  her  modest  grace, 
Her  down-cast  look  't  was  heaven  to  trace 
When,  shading  with  her  hand  her  face 
She  half  inclined  to  sadness. 
Her  voice,  whate'er  she  said,  enchanted 
Like  music  to  the  heart  it  went. 
And  her  dark  eyes — how  eloquent! 
Ask  what  they  would,  'twas  granted. 
Her  father  loved  her  as  his  fame ; 
— And  Bayard's  self  had  done  the  same ' 

Soon  as  the  sun  the  glittering  pane 
On  the  red  floor  in  diamonds  threw. 
His  songs  she  sung  and  sung  again. 
Till  the  last  light  withdrew. 
Every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
He  mused  or  slumber'd  to  a  song, 
But  she  is  dead  to  him,  to  all ! 
Her  lute  hangs  silent  on  the  w"all ; 
And  on  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door 
Her  fairy-step  is  heard  no  more! 
At  every  meal  an  empty  chair 
Tells  him  that  she  is  not  there ; 
She,  Avho  would  lead  him  where  he  weni 
Charm  with  her  converse  while  he  leant; 
Or,  hovering,  every  wish  prevent; 
At  eve  light  up  the  chimney-nook. 
Lay  there  his  glass  within  his  book ; 
And  that  small  chest  of  curious  mould, 
(Queen  Mab's,  perchance,  in  days  of  old,) 
Tusk  of  elephant  and  gold ; 
Which,  when  a  tale  is  long,  dispenses 
Its  fragran^dust  to  drowsy  senses. 
In  her  who  mourn'd  not,  when  they  miss  ct  i\cr 
The  old  a  child,  the  young  a  sister  ? 
No  more  the  orphan  runs  to  take 
From  her  loved  hand  the  barley-cake- 
No  more  the  matron  in  the  school 
Expects  her  in  the  hour  of  rule. 
To  sit  amid  the  elfin  brood. 
Praising  the  busy  and  the  good. 
The  widow  trims  her  hearth  in  vain. 
She  comes  not — nor  will  come  again ! 
Not  now,  his  little  lesson  done. 
With  Frederic  blowing  bubbles  in  the  sun ; 

32 


JACQUELINE. 


25 


Nor  spinning  by  the  fountain-side, 

(Some  story  of  the  days  of  old, 

Barbe  Bleue  or  Chaperon  Rouge  half-told 

To  him  who  would  not  be  denied  ;) 

Not  now,  to  while  an  hour  away, 

Gone  to  the  falls  in  Valombre, 

Where  't  is  night  at  noon  of  day ; 

Nor  -vandering  up  and  down  the  wood, 

To  all  but  her  a  solitude, 

Where  once  a  wild  deer,  wild  no  more, 

Her  chaplet  on  his  antlers  wore, 

And  at  her  bidding  stood. 

II. 

The  day  was  in  the  golden  west ; 

And,  curtain'd  close  by  leaf  and  flower. 

The  doves  had  cooed  themselves  to  rest 

In  Jacqueline's  deserted  bower; 

The  doves — that  still  would  at  her  casement  peck, 

And  in  her  walks  had  ever  flutter'd  round 

With  purple  feet  and  shining  neck, 

True  as  the  echo  to  the  sound. 

That  casement,  underneath  the  trees, 

Half  open  to  the  western  breeze, 

Look'd  dow^n,  enchanting  Garonnelle, 

Thy  wild   and   mulberry-shaded   dell, 

Round  which  the  Alps  of  Piedmont  rose, 

The  blush  of  sunset  on  their  snows : 

While,  blithe  as  lark  on  summer-morn, 

When  green  and  yellow  waves  the  corn. 

When  harebells  blow  in  every  grove, 

And  thrushes  sing  "I  love!  I  love.'"' 

Within  (so  soon  the  early  rain 

Scatters,  and  't  is  fair  again  ; 

Though  many  a  drop  may  yet  be  seen 

To  tell  us  where  a  cloud  has  been) 

Within  lay  Frederic,  o'er  and  o'er 

Building  castles  on  the  floor, 

And  feigning,  as  they  grew^  in  size, 

New  troubles  and  new  dangers ; 

With  dimpled  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 

As  he  and  Fear  were  strangers. 

St.  Pierre  sat  by,  nor  saw  nor  smiled. 
His  eyes  were  on  his  loved  Montaigne ; 
But  every  leaf  was  turn'd  in  vain- 
Then  in  that  hour  remorse  he  felt, 
Ani  his  heart  told  him  he  had  dealt 
Unkindly  with  his  child. 
A  father  may  awhile  refuse  ; 
But  who  can  for  another  choose  ? 
When  her  young  blushes  had  reveal'd 
The  secret  from  herself  conceal'd, 
WTiy  promise  what  her  tears  denied, 
That  she  should  be  De  Courcy's  bride  ? 
— Wouldst  thou,  presumptuous  as  thou  art, 
O'er  Nature  play  the  tyrant's  part. 
And  with  the  hand  compel  the  heart  ? 
Oh  rather,  rather  hope  to  bind 
The  ocean-wave,  the  mountain-wind ; 
Or  fix  thy  foot  upon  the  groimd 
To  stop  the  planet  rolling  round. 

The  light  was  on  his  face ;  and  there 
You  might  have  seen  the  passions  driven — 
Resentment,  Pity,  Hope,   Despair — 
Like  clouds  across  the  face  of  Heaven. 


1  Cantando  "lo  amo  I  lo  amol" — Tasso. 


Now  he  sigh'd  heavily;  and  now. 

His  hand  withdrawing  from  his  brow. 

He  shut  the  volume  with  a  frown, 

To  walk  his  troubled  spirit  down: 

— When  (faithful  as  that  dog  of  yore' 

Who  wagg'd  his  tail  and  could  no  more) 

Manchon,  who  long  had  snufl^'d  the  ground, 

And  sought  and  sought,  but  never  found, 

Leapt  up  and  to  the  casement  flew. 

And  look'd  and  bark'd  and  vanish'd  through 

"  'T  is  Jacqueline  !    'T  is  Jacqueline  !" 

Her  little  brother  laughing  cried. 

"  I  know  her  by  her  kirtle  green, 

She  comes  along  the  mountain-side  ; 

Now  turning  by  the  traveller's  seat, — 

Now  resting  in  the  hermit's  cave, — 

Now  kneeling,  where  the  pathways  meet, 

To  the  cross  on  the  stranger's  grave. 

And,  by  the  soldier's  cloak,  I  know 

(There,  there  along  the  ridge  they  go) 

D'Arcy,  so  gentle  and  so  brave  I 

Look  up — why  will  you  not  ?"  he  cries 

His  rosy  hands  before  his  eyes  ; 

For  on  that  incense-breathing  eve 

The  sun  shone  out,  as  loth  to  leave. 

"  See  to  the  rugged  rock  she  clings  I 

She  calls,  she  faints,  and  D'Arcy  springs 

D'Arcy  so  dear  to  us,  to  all  ; 

Who,  for  you  told  me  on  your  knee, 

When  in  the  fight  he  saw  you  fall. 

Saved  you  for  Jacqueline  and  me!" 

And  true  it  was!  And  true  the  tale! 
When  did  she  sue  and  not  prevail  ? 
Five,  years  before — it  was  the  night 
That  on  the  village-green  they  parted. 
The  lilied  banners  streaming  bright 
O'er  maids  and  mothers  broken-hearted  ; 
The  drum — it  drowii'd  the  last  adieu. 
When  D'Arcy  from  the  crowd  she  drew. 
"  One  charge  I  have,  and  one  alone. 
Nor  that  refuse  to  take, 
My  father — if  not  for  his  own. 
Oh  for  his  daughter's  sake  !" 
Inly  he  vow'd — "  't  was  all  he  could  !" 
And  went  and  seal'd  it  with  his  blood. 

Nor  can  ye  wonder.    When  a  child. 
And  in  her  playfulness  she  smiled, 
Up  many  a  ladder-path^  he  guided 
Where  meteor-like  the  chamois  glided. 
Through  many  a  misty  grove. 
They  loved — but  under  Friendship's  name 
And  Reason,  Virtue  fann'd  the  flame ; 
Till  in  their  houses  Discord  came, 
And  't  was  a  crime  to  love. 
Then  what  was  Jacqueline  to  do? 
Her  father's  angry  hours  she  knew. 
And  when  to  soothe,  and  when  persuade, 
But  now  her  path  De  Courcy  cross'd. 
Led  by  his  falcon  through  the  glade — 
He  turn'd,  beheld,  admired  the  maid ; 
And  all  her  little  arts  were  lost ! 
De  Courcy,  lord  of  Argentiere ! 
Thy  poverty,  thy  pride,  St.  Pierre, 
Thy  thirst  for  vengeance  sought  the  snare. 


1  Areus. 

2  Called  in  the  language  of  the  country  pas  de  VEckelle 

33 


26 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  day  was  named,  the  guests  invited  ; 
The  bridegroom,  at  the  gate,  alighted  ; 
When  up  the  windings  of  the  dell 
A  pastoral  pipe  was  heard  to  swell, 
And  lo,  an  humble  Piedmontese, 
Whose  music  might  a  lady  please, 
This  message  through  the  lattice  bore, 
(She  listen'd,  and  her  trembling  frame 
Told  her  at  once  from  whom  it  came) 
Oh  let  us  fly — to  part  no  morel" 

III. 

That  morn  ('t  was  in  Ste  Julienne's  ceil, 

As  at  Ste  Julienne's  sacred  well 

Their  dream  of  love  began). 

That  morn,  ere  many  a  star  was  set, 

Their  hands  had  on  the  altar  met 

Before  the  holy  man. 

— And  now  the  village  gleams  at  last  ; 

The  woods,  the  golden  meadows  pass'd, 

Where,  when  Toulouse,  thy  splendor  shone 

The  Troubadour  Avould  journey  on 

Transported — or,  from  grove  to  grove, 

Framing  some  roundelay  of  love, 

Wander  till  the  day  was  gone. 

"  All  will  be  well,  my  Jacqueline ! 

Oh  tremble  not — but  trust  in  me. 

The  good  are  better  made  by  ill. 

As  odors  crush'd  are  sweeter  still ; 

And  gloomy  as  thy  past  has  been, 

Bright  shall  thy  future  be  !" 

So  saying,  through  the  fragrant  shade 

Gently  along  he  led  the  maid. 

While  Manchon  round  and  round  her  play'd 

And,  as  that  silent  glen  they  leave. 

Where  by  the  spring  the  pitchers  stand. 

Where  glow-worms  light  their  lamps  at  eve. 

And  fairies  dance — in  fairy-land, 

(When  Lubin  calls,  and  Blanche  steals  round, 

Her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  see ; 

And  many  an  acorn-cup  is  found 

Under   the  greenwood    tree) 

From  every  cot  above,  below, 

They  gather  as  they  go — 

■Sabot,  and  coif,  and  collerette. 

The  housewife's  prayer,  the  grandam's  blessing ! 

Girls  that  adjust  their  locks  of  jet, 

And  look  and  look  and  linger  yet. 

The  lovely  bride  caressing ; 

Babes  that  had  learnt  to  lisp  her  name, 

And  heroes  he  had  led  to  fame. 

But  what  felt  D'Arcy,  when  at  length 
Her  father's  gate  was  open  flung  ? 
Ah,  then  he  found  a  giant's  strength ; 
For  round  him,  as  for  life,  she  clung ! 
A.nd  when,  her  fit  of  weeping  o'er, 
Onward  they  moved  a  little  space. 
And  saw  an  old  man  sittmg  at  the  door,. 
Saw  his  wan  cheek,  and  sunken  eye 
That  seera'd  to  gaze  on  vacancy, 
Then,  at  the  sight  of  that  beloved  face. 
At  once  to  fall  upon  his  neck  she  flew ; 
But — ^not  encouraged — back  she  drew, 
And  trembling  stood  in  dread  suspense, 
Her  tears  her  only  eloquence  I 


All,  all — the  while — an  awful  distance  keeping  • 
Save  D'Arcy,  who  nor  speaks  nor  stirs ; 
And  one,  his  little  hand  in  hers. 
Who  weeps  to  see  his  sister  weeping. 
Then  Jacqueline  the  silence  broke. 
She  clasp'd  her  father's  knees  and  spoke. 
Her  brother  kneeling  too  ; 
While  D'Arcy  as  before  look'd  on, 
Though  from  his  manly  cheek  ^vas  gone 
Its  natural  hue. 

"  His  praises  from  your  lips  I  heard. 
Till  my  fond  heart  was  won  ; 
And,  if  in  aught  his  Sire  has  err'd. 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  Son  I — 
She,  whom  in  joy,  in  grief  you  nursed ; 
Who  climb'd  and  call'd  you  father  furst, 
By  that  dear  name  conjures — 
On  her  you  thought — but  to  be  kind ! 
Wlien  look'd  you  up,  but  you  inclined? 
These  things,  for  ever  in  her  mind, 
Oh  are  they  gone  from  yours  ? 
Two  kneeling  at  your  feet  behold ; 
One — one  how  young  ; — ^nor  yet  the  other  old. 
Oh  spurn  them  not — nor  look  so  cold — 
If  Jacqueline  be  cast  away. 
Her  bridal  be  her  dying  day. 
Well,  well  might  she  believe  in  you ! — 
She  listen'd,  and  she  found  it  true." 
He  shook  his  aged  locks  of  snow ; 
And  twice  he  turn'd,  and  rose  to  go. 
She  hung ;  and  was  St.  Pierre  to  blame, 
If  tears  and  smiles  together  came  ? 
"  Oh  no — begone  I  I'll  hear  no  more." 

But  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  relented. 

"  That  very  look  thy  mother  wore 

When  she  implored,  and  old  Le  Roc  consented 
True,  I  have  dv.ne  as  well  as  suiTer'd  wrong, 

Yet  once  I  loved  him  as  my  own ! 

— Nor  can'st  thou,  D'Arcy,  feel  resentment  long  ; 

For  she  herself  shall  plead,  and  I  atone. 

Henceforth,"  he  paused  awhile,  unmann'd. 

For  D'Arcy 's  tears  bedew'd  his  hand  ; 

"  Let  each  meet  each  as  friend  to  friend, 

All  things  by  all  forgot,  forgiven. 

And  that  dear  Saint — may  she  once  more  descend 

To  make  our  home  a  heaven ! — 

But  now,  in  my  hands,  your's  with  her's  unite. 

A  father's  blessing  on  your  heads  alight ! 

: — Nor  let  the  least  be  sent  away. 

All  hearts  shall  sing  'Adieu  to  sorrow!' 

St.  Pierre  has  found  his  child  to-day; 

And  old  and  young  shall  dance  to-morrow." 

Had  Louis'  then  before  the  gate  dismounted, 

Lost  in  the  chase  at  set  of  sun  ; 

Like  Henry,  when  he  heard  recounted^ 

The  generous  deeds  himself  had  done, 

(That  night  the  miller's  maid  Colette 

Sung,  while  he  supp'd,  her  chansonnette^ 

Then— when  St.  Pierre  address'd  his  village-traifi, 

Then  had  the  monarch  with  a  sigh  confcss'd 

A  joy  by  him  unsought  and  unpossess'd, 

— without  it  what  are  all  the  rest? — 

To  love  and  to  be  loved  again. 


1  Louis  th^Fourteenth. 

2  Alluding  to  a  popular  story  related  of  Henry  tho  Fourth  o> 
France ;  similar  to  ours  of  "  Tije  King  and  MilJer  of  Mansfield. 

34 


sriie  Won^st  ot  ColumfiU!^. 


Chi  se'  tu,  che  vieni  ? — 
Da  me  stcsso  non  vegno. 

Dante. 
I  have  seen  the  day. 
That  I  have  worn  a  visor,  and  could  tell 

A  tale 

Shakspeare. 


PREFACE. 

The  following  Poem  (or  to  speak  more  properly, 
what  remains  of  it ')  has  here  and  there  a  lyrical 
turn  of  thought  and  expression.  It  is  sudden  in  its 
transitions,  and  full  of  historical  allusions;  leaving 
much  to  be  imagined  by  the  reader. 

The  subject  is  a  voyage  the  most  memorable  in  the 
annals  of  mankind.  Columbus  was  a  person  of  ex- 
traordinary virtue  and  piety,  acting  under  the  sense  of 
a  divine  impulse ;  and  his  acliievement  the  discovery 
of  a  New  World,  the  inhabiiants  of  which  were  shut 
out  from  the  light  of  Revelation,  and  given  up,  as 
they  believed,  to  the  dominion  of  malignant  spirits. 

Many  of  the  incidents  will  now  be  thought  extrav- 
agant ;  yet  they  were  once  perhaps  received  with 
something  more  than  indulgence.  It  was  an  age  of 
miracles .;  and  who  can  say  that  among  the  venerable 
legends  in  the  library  of  the  Escurial,  or  the  more 
authentic  records  which  fill  the  great  chamber  in  the 
Archivo  of  Simancas,  and  which  relate  entirely  to  the 
deep  tragedy  of  America,  there  are  no  volumes  that 
mention  the  marvellous  things  here  described  ?  In- 
deed the  story,  as  already  told  throughout  Europe, 
admits  of  no  heightening.  Such  was  the  religious 
enthusiasm  of  the  early  writers,  that  the  Author  had 
only  to  transfuse  it  into  his  verse ;  and  he  appears  to 
have  done  httle  more ;  though  some  of  the  circum- 
stances which  he  alludes  to  as  well  known,  have 
long  cea-sed  to  be  so.  By  using  the  language  of  that 
day,  he  has  called  up  Columbus  "  in  his  habit  as  he 
lived;"  and  the  authorities,  such  as  exist,  are  care- 
fully given  by  the  Translator. 


INSCRIBED  ON  THE  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPT. 

Unclasp  me.  Stranger ;  and  unfold. 
With  trembling  care,  my  leaves  of  gold 
Rich  in  Gothic  portraiture — 
If  yet,  alas,  a  leaf  endure. 

In  Rabida's  monastic  fane, 
I  cannot  ask,  and  ask  in  vain. 
The  language  of  Castile  I  speak ; 
'Mid  many  an  Arab,  many  a  Greek, 
Old  in  the  days  of  Charlemain  ; 
Wlien  minstrel-music  wander'd  round, 
And  Science,  waking,  bless'd  the  sound. 

No  earthly  thought  has  here  a  place, 
The  cowl  let  down  on  every  face ; 


1  The  Original,  in  the  Castilian  language,  according  to  the 
Inscription  that  follows,  was  found  among  other  MSS.  in  an  old 
religions  house  near  Palos,  situated  on  an  island  formed  by  the 
river  Tinto,  and  dedicated  to  our  Lady  of  Rabida.  The  writer 
describes  himself  as  having  sailed  with  Columbus;  but  his 
•tylc  and  manner  are  evidently  of  an  after-time. 


Yet  here,  in  consecrated  dust. 
Here  would  I  sleep,  if  sleep  I  must. 
From  Genoa  when  Columbus  came, 
(At  once  her  glory  and  her  shame) 
'T  was  here  he  caught  the  holy  flame. 
'T  was  here  the  generous  vow  he  made ; 
His  banners  on  the  altar  laid. — 

One  hallow'd  morn,  methought,  I  felt 
As  if  a  soul  within  me  dwelt! 
But  who  arose  and  gave  to  me 
The  sacred  trust  I  keep  for  thee, 
And  in  his  cell  at  even-tide 
Knelt  before  the  cross  and  died — 
Inquire  not  now.     His  name  no  more 
Glimmers  on  the  chancel-floor. 
Near  the  lights  that  ever  shine 
Before  St.  Mary's  blessed  shrine. 

To  me  one  little  hour  devote, 
And  lay  thy  staff  and  scrip  beside  thee; 
Read  in  the  temper  that  he  wrote. 
And  may  his  gentle  spirit  guide  thee ! 
My  leaves  forsake  me,  one  by  one  ; 
The  book-worm  through  and  through  has  gone 
Oh  haste — unclasp  me,  and  unfold ; 
The  tale  within  was  never  told  1 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


There  is  a  spirit  in  the  old  Spanish  Chroniclers 
of  the  sixteenth  century  that  may  be  compared  to  the 
freshness  of  water  at  the  fountain-head.  Their  sim- 
plicity, their  sensibility  to  the  strange  and  the  won- 
derful, their  very  wealaiesses,  give  an  infinite  value, 
by  giving  a  life  and  a  character  to  every  thing  they 
touch ;  and  their  religion,  which  bursts  out  every- 
where, addresses  itself  to  the  imagination  in  the 
highest  degree.  If  they  err,  their  errors  are  not  their 
own.  They  think  and  feel  after  the  fashion  of  the 
time ;  and  their  narratives  are  so  many  moving 
pictm-es  of  the  actions,  manners,  and  thoughts  of 
their  contemporaries. 

^\Tiat  they  liad  to  communicate,  might  well  make 
them  eloquent ;  but,  inasmuch  as  relates  to  Colum- 
bus, the  inspiration  went  no  farther.  No  National 
Poem  appeared  on  the  subject;  no  Camoens  did 
honor  to  his  Genius  and  his  Virtues.  Yet  the  mate- 
rials, that  have  descended  to  us,  are  surely  not  un- 
poetical ;  and  a  desire  to  avail  myself  of  them,  to 
convey  in  some  instances  as  far  as  I  could,  in  others 
as  far  as  I  dared,  their  warmth  of  coloring  and 
wildness  of  imagery,  led  me  to  conceive  the  idea  ot 
a  Poem  written  not  long  after  his  death,  when  the 
great  consequences  of  the  Discovery  were  beginning 


35 


28 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


to  unfold  themselves,  but  while  the  minds  of  men 
were  still  clinging  to  the  superstitions  of  their  fathers. 
The  Event  here  described  may  be  thought  too 
recent  for  the  Machinery;  but  I  found  them  together.' 
A  belief  in  the  agency  of  Evil  Spirits  prevailed  over 
both  hemispheres ;  and  even  yet  seems  almost  neces- 
sary to  enable  us  to  clear  up  the  Darkness,  and,  in 
this  instance  at  least, 

To  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  Men. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Columbus,  having  wandered  from  kingdom  to  king- 
dom, at  length  obtains  three  ships  and  sets  sail  on  the 
Atlantic.  The  compass  alters  from  its  ancient  direc- 
tion ;  the  wind  becomes  constant  and  unremitting ; 
night  and  day  he  advances,  till  he  is  suddenly  stop- 
ped in  his  course  by  a  mass  of  vegetation  extending 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and  assuming  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  country  overwhelmed  by  the  sea. 
Alarm  and  despondence  on  board.  He  resigns  him- 
self to  the  care  of  Heaven,  and  proceeds  on  his 
voyage ;  while  columns  of  water  move  along  in  his 
path  before  him. 

Meanwhile  the  deities  of  America  assemble  in 
council ;  and  one  of  the  Zemi,  the  gods  of  the  island- 
ers, announces  his  approach.  "  In  vain,"  says  he, "  have 
we  guarded  the  Atlantic  for  ages.  A  mortal  has 
baffled  our  power ;  nor  will  our  votaries  arm  against 
him.  Yours  are  a  sterner  race.  Hence;  and,  while 
we  have  recourse  to  stratagem,  do  you  array  the  na- 
tions round  your  altars,  and  prepare  for  an  extermi- 
nating war."  They  disperse  wliile  he  is  yet  speaking ; 
and,  in  the  shape  of  a  condor,  he  directs  his  flight  to 
the  fleet.  His  journey  described.  He  arrives  there. 
A  panic.  A  mutiny.  Columbus  restores  order ;  con- 
tinues on  his  voyage ;  and  lands  in  a  New  World. 
Ceremonies  of  the  first  interview.  Rites  of  hospitality. 
The  ghost  of  Cazziva. 

Two  months  pass  away,  and  an  Angel,  appearing 
in  a  dream  to  Columbus,  thus  addresses  him  ;  "  Re- 
turn to  Europe  ;  though  your  Adversaries,  such  is  the 
will  of  Heaven,  shall  let  loose  the  hurricane  against 
you.  A  little  while  shall  they  triumph ;  insinuating 
themselves  into  the  hearts  of  your  followers,  and 
making  the  World,  which  you  came  to  bless,  a  scene 
of  blood  and  slaughter.  Yet  is  there  cause  for  re- 
joicing. Your  work  is  done.  The  cross  of  Christ  is 
planted  here ;  and,  in  due  time,  all  things  shall  be 
made  perfect!" 


CANTO  I. 


Night — Columbus  on  the  Atlantic — the  Variation 
of  the  Compass,  etc. 

Who  the  great  Secret  of  the  Deep  possess'd 
And,  issuing  through  the  portals  of  the  West, 
Fearless,  resolved,  with  even,'  sail  unfurl'd 
Planted  his  standard  on  the  Unknown  World  ? 

1  Perhaps  even  a  contemporary  subject  should  not  be  reject- 
ed as  such,  however  wild  and  extravagant  it  may  be,  if  the 
manners  be  foreign  and  the  place  distant — major  e  longinquo 
leverentia.  "  L'eloignement  des  pays,"  says  Racine,  "rcpare 
en  quelque  sorte  la  trop  jrrande  proxiinite  des  temps ;  car  le 
peuple  ne  met  euere  de  difference  entre  ce  qui  est,  si  j'ose  ainsi 
parler,  h.  miL!e  ans  de  lui,  et  ce  qui  en  est  k  miile  lieues." 


Him,  by  the  Paynim  bard  descried  of  yore,  (1 
And  ere  his  coming  sung  on  either  shore, 
Him  could  not  I  exalt — by  Heaven  design'd 
To  lift  the  veil  that  cover'd  half  mankind! 
Yet,  ere  I  die,  I  would  fulfil  my  vow ; 
Praise  cannot  wound  his  generous  spirit  now. 
***** 

'Twas  night.   The  Moon,  o'^^r  the  wide  wave,  dii 
closed 
Her  awful  face  ;  and  Nature's  self  reposed  ; 
When,  slowly  rising  in  the  azure  sky, 
Three  white  sails  shone — but  to  no  mortal  eye, 
Entering  a  boundless  sea.     In  slumber  cast, 
The  very  ship-boy,  on  the  dizzy  mast, 
Half  breathed  his  orisons !  Alone  unchanged, 
Calmly,  beneath,  the  great  Commander  (2)  ranged 
Thoughtful,  not  sad  ;  and,  as  the  planet  grew, 
His  noble  form,  wrapt  in  his  mantle  blue, 
Athwart  the  deck  a  deepening  shadow  threw. 
"  Thee  hath  it  pleased— Thy  will  be  done !"  he  said,  (3 
Then  sought  his  cabin ;  and,  their  capas'  spread, 
Around  him  lay  the  slee])ing  as  the  dead, 
Wiien,  by  his  lamp,  to  that  mysterious  Guide, 
On  whose  still  counsels  all  his  hopes  relied, 
That  Oracle  to  man  in  mercy  given, 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven,  (4; 
Who  over  sands  and  seas  directs  the  stray, 
And,  as  with  God's  own  finger,  points  the  viay, 
He  turn'd;  but  what  strange  thoughts  perplex'd  his  soil, 
When,  lo,  no  more  attracted  to  the  Pole, 
The  Compass,  faithless  as  the  circling  vane, 
Flutter'd  and  fix'd,  flutter'd  and  fix'd  again! 
At  length,  as  by  some  unseen  hand  nnprest^ 
It  sought  with  trembling  energy  the  West  12 
"  Ah  no,"  he  cried,  and  calm'd  his  anxious  brow, 
"  III,  nor  the  signs  of  ill,  'lis  thine  to  show. 
Thine  but  to  lead  me  where  I  wish'd  to  go !" 
Columbus  err'd  not.  (5)  In  that  awful  hour, 
Sent  forth  to  save,  and  girt  with  godlike  power 
And  glorious  as  the  regent  of  the  Sun, 
An  Angel  came  I  He  spoke,  and  it  was  done ! 
He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind,  (6) 
Not  like  the  fitful  blast,  with  fury  blind, 
But  deep,  majestic,  in  its  destined  course, 
Sprung  with  unerring,  unrelenting  force, 
From  the  bright  East.   Tides  duly  ebb'd  and  flow'd  , 
Stars  rose  and  set;  and  new  horizons  glow'd ; 
Yet  still  it  blew!  As  with  primeval  sway 
Still  did  its  ample  spirit,  night  and  day. 
Move  on  the  waters ! — All,  resign'd  to  Fate, 
Folded  their  arms  and  sat ;  (7)  and  seem'd  to  wait 
Some  sudden  change;  and  sought,  in  chill  suspense^ 
New  spheres  of  being,  and  new  modes  of  sense  , 
As  men  departing,  though  not  doom'd  to  die. 
And  midway  on  their  passage  to  eternity. 


CANTO  11. 


The  Voyage  continued. 
"What  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there,  (8"! 
As  of  a  former  world  ?   Is  it  aot  where 
Atlantic  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  display'd;(9) 
Sunk  into  darkness  with  the  realms  they  sway'd. 


1  The  capa  is  the  Spanish  cloak. 

2  Herrera,  dec.  1,  lib.  i,  c.  9. 


36 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


20 


When  towers  and  temples,  through  the  closing  wave, 
A  glimmermg  ray  of  ancient  splendor  gave — 
And  we  shall  rest  A\-ith  them. — Or  are  we  thrown" 
(Each  gazed  on  each,  and  all  exclaim'd  as  one) 
"  Where  things  familiar  cease  and  strange  begin, 
All  progress  barr'd  to  those  without,  within  ? 
— Soon  is  the  doubt  resolved.     Arise,  behold — 
We  stop  to  stir  no  more — nor  will  the  tale  be  told." 

The  pilot  smote  his  breast ;  the  watchman  cried 
"Land I"  and  liis  voice  in  faltering  accents  died.  (10) 
At  once  the  fury  of  the  prow  was  quell'd  ; 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld)  (11) 
Shrielis,  not  of  men,  were  nungling  in  the  blast ; 
And  armed  shapes  of  godlike  stature  pass'd  I 
Slowly  along  the  evening-sky  they  went. 
As  on  the  edge  of  some  vast  battlement  ; 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  spear  and  gonfalon 
Streaming  a  baleful  hght  that  was  not  of  the  sun ! 

Long  from  the  stern  the  great  adventurer  gazed 
With  awe  not  fear ;  then  high  his  hands  he  raised. 
"Thou  All-supreme — in  goodness  as  in  power, 
Who,  from  his  birth  to  this  eventful  hour, 
Hast  led  thy  servant  (12)  over  land  and  sea. 
Confessing  Thee  in  all,  and  all  in  Thee, 
Oh  still" — He  spoke,  and  lo,  the  charm  accurst 
Fled  whence  it  came,  and  the  broad  barrier  burst ! 
A  vain  illusion  I  (such  as  mocks  the  eyes 
Of  fearful  men,  when  mountains  round  them  rise 
From  less  than  nothing)  nothing  now  beheld, 
But  scatter'd  sedge — repelling,  and  repell'd  ! 

And  once  again  that  valiant  company 
Right  onward  came,  plowing  the  Unknown  Sea. 
Already  borne  beyond  the  range  of  thought. 
With  Light  divine,  with  Truth  immortal  fraught. 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep,  (13) 
Swift  as  the  winds  along  the  waters  sweep, 
'Mid  the  mute  nations  of  the  purple  deep. 
— And  now  the  sound  of  harpy-wings  they  hear ; 
Now  less  and  less,  as  vanishing  in  fear! 
And,  see,  the  heavens  bow  down,  the  waters  rise, 
And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies,  (14) 
That  stand — and  still,  when  they  proceed,  retire, 
As  in  the  desert  burn'd  the  sacred  fire ; 
Moving  in  silent  majesty,  till  Night 
Descends,  and  shuts  the  vision  from  their  sight. 


CANTO  III. 


An  Assembly  of  Evil  Spirits. 

Though  changed  my  cloth  of  gold   for   amice 
grey— (15) 
In  my  spring-time,  when  every  month  was  May, 
With  hawk  and  hound  I  coursed  away  the  hour, 
Or  sung  my  roundelay  in  lady's  bower. 
And  though  my  world  be  now  a  narrow  cell, 
(Renounced  for  ever  all  I  loved  so  well) 
Though  now  my  head  be  bald,  my  feet  be  bare. 
And  scarce  my  knees  sustain  my  book  of  prayer, 
Oh  I  was  there,  one  of  that  gallant  crew, 
And  saw — and  wonder'd  whence  his  Power Jle  drew, 
Yet  httle  thought,  though  by  his  side  I  stood, 
Of  his  great  Foes  in  earth  and  air  and  flood, 
Then  uninstructed. — But  my  sand  is  run, 
And  the  Night  coming — and  my  Task  not  done ! — 

'T  was  in  the  deep  immeasurable  cave 
Of  Andes,  (16)  echoing  to  the  Southern  wave, 


'Mid  pillars  of  Basalt,  the  work  of  fire, 
That,  giant-like,  to  upper  day  aspire ; 
T  was  there  that  now,  as  wont  in  heaven  to  shine, 
Forms  of  angelic  mould,  and  grace  divine, 
Assembled.    All,  exiled  the  realms  of  rest, 
In  vain  the  sadness  of  their  souls  suppress'd ; 
Yet  of  their  glory  many  a  scatter'd  ray 
Shot  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  decay. 
Each  moved  a  God ;  and  all,  as  Gods  possess'd 
One  half  the  globe ;  from  pole  to  pole  confess'd!  (17) 

Oh  could  I  now — but  how  in  mortal  verse — 
Their  numbers,  their  heroic  deeds  rehearse  ! 
These  in  dim  shrmes  and  barbarous  symbols  reign, 
Where  Plata  and  Maragnon  meet  the  main.  (18) 
Those  the  wild  hunter  worships  as  he  roves, 
In  the  green  shade  of  Chili's  fragrant  groves ; 
Or  warrior-tribes  with  rites  of  blood  implore, 
Whose  night-fires  gleam  along  the  sullen  shore 
Of  Huron  or  Ontario,  inland  seas,  (19) 
What  time  the  song  of  death  is  in  the  breeze ! 

'T  was  now  in  dismal  pomp  and  order  due. 
While  the  vast  concave  flash'd  with  lightnings  blue 
On  shining  pavements  of  metallic  ore, 
That  many  an  age  the  fusing  sulphur  bore. 
They  held  high  council.    All  was  silence  round, 
When,  with  a  voice  most  sweet  yet  most  profound, 
A  sovereign  Spirit  burst  the  gates  of  night, 
And  from  his  w  ings  of  gold  shook  drops  of  liquid 

light ! 
Merion,  commission'd  with  his  host  to  sweep 
From  age  to  age  the  melancholy  deep ! 
Chief  of  tlie  Zemi,  whom  the  isles  obey'd, 
By  Ocean  sever'd  from  a  world  of  shade.  (20) 


"  Prepare,  again  prepare," 
Tlius  o'er  the  soul  the  thrilling  accents  came, 
"  Thrones  to  resign  for  lakes  of  living  flame. 

And  triumph  for  despair. 
He,  on  whose  call  afflicting  thunders  wait. 

Has  will'd  it ;  and  his  will  is  fate  ! 
In  vain  the  legions,  emulous  to  save, 

Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main ;  (21) 
Turn'd  each  presumptuous  prow  that  broke  the  wave 

And  dash'd  it  on  its  shores  again. 
All  is  fulfill'd !  Behold,  in  close  array. 
What  mighty  banners  stream  in  the  bright  track  of 
day! 

II. 
No  voice,  as  erst,  shall  in  the  desert  rise ;  (22) 
Nor  ancient,  dread  solemnities 
With  scorn  of  death  the  trembling  tribes  inspiie 
Wreatlis  for  the  Conqueror's  brow  the  victims  bind. 
Yet,  though  we  fled  yon  firmament  of  fire. 
Still  shall  we  fly,  all  hope  of  rule  resign'd  ?" 


He  spoke;  and  all  was  silence,  all  was  night! (23' 
Each  had  already  wing'd  liis  formidable  flight. 


CANTO  IV. 


The  Voyage  continued 
"  Ah,  why  look  back,  though  all  is  lefl  behind  I 
No  sounds  of  life  are  stirring  in  the  wind. — 

37 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All,  all  are  fled',  yet  still  I  linger  here! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  ? 

Mark  yon  old  Mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
Whose  hollow  turret  wooes  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement,  arch'd  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
First  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The   mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-growTi 

court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport, 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew-. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd, 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely -sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old  hereditary  nest : 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
Oh  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state. 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate. 

Now  stain'd  with  dews,  with  cobwebs  darkly  hung. 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung  ; 
AVhen  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree, 
We  sweeten'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest  ; 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
'Twas  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound ; 
And  tum'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring  ; 
And  fancy  flutter'd  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain'd  each  wondering  ear ; 
And  orphan-sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  w-e  wander'd  in  the  Avood, 
Or  view"d  the  forest-feats  of  Robin  Hood : 
Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour, 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower  ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murder'd  by  ruffian  hands.  v\hen  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  Household  Deities!  whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,  ere  register'd  on  high ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground. 
And  breathe  the  soul  of  Inspiration  round. 

As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend. 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight. 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight; 
And  still,  with  Heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest, 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-color'd  chart; 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  beart; 
That  faithful  monitor  't  was  heaven  to  hear. 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near . 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chime, 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  Time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence  the  caged  linnet  soothed  my  pensive  thought; 
Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust:      [dust 
Those  once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  thro'  their 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast. 
Starting  to  life — all  w  hisper  of  the  Past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  I 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing, 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  touch  of  Time ; 


Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer  shade . 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  red-breast  from  his  lone  retreat ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  c'ery  scene  , 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  Light  can  give 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  below 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know- ; 
Whose  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm ; 
Thee  would  the  Muse  invoke ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
"VMien  o'er  the  landscape  Time's  meek  twilight  steals 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day, 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd 
Glance  on  the  darken'd  mirror  of  the  mind. 
The  School's  lone  porch,  with  reverend  mosses  grey 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the  lawn  : 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air, 
WTien  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear,  (1) 
Some  little  friendship  form'd  and  cherish'd  here , 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  Gipsey's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed ; 
Gazed  on  her  sun-burnt  face  with  silent  aw'e, 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er ; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore, 
Imps  in  the  bam  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 
From  rifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed ;  [shade, 

^^Tiose  dark  eyes  flash'd  through  locks  of  blackest 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bay'd: — 
And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  mutter'd  call, 
^^^lOse  elfln  prowess  scaled  the  orchard-wall. 
As  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew. 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view. 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 

fears. 
To  learn  the  color  of  my  future  years ! 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flush'd  my  breast; 
This  truth  once  known — To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
(Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver-grey) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt, 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store, 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more,  [live !" 
He  breathed  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  such  goodness 
'Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 

But  hark!  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell, 
The  church-clock  strikes!  ye  tender  scenes,  farewell 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  Time  may  soon  efl^ace. 

On  yon  grey  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel-door 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more. 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring. 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 
Alas !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

10 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


3 


The  glow-worm  loves  lier  emerald  light  to  shed, 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  tiun'd  the  greensward  wiith  his  spade. 
He  lectmed  every  youth  that  round  him  play'd  ; 
And,  calmly  pointing  w'here  oiu-  fathers  lay. 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,  hush!  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life!  instructors  of  my  youth! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  Truth ; 
Whose  every  word  enlighten'd  and  endear'd  ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered ; 
In  Friendsliip's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  Art  can  give. 

— But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasiu-e  sleep, 
When  only  Sorrow  w^akes,  and  wakes  to  w  eep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined ! 

Ethereal  Power!  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recalfst  the  far-fled  spirit  of  delight; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good ; 
Blest  Memory,  hail !  Oh  grant  the  grateful  Muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  Nature's  Uving  hues, 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll. 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Luli'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain. 
Our  thoughts  are  link'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  one,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise !  (2) 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies ! 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
DeUght  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 
Brightens  or  fades ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 
Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 
As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 
Drew  every  subject-spirit  to  his  cell  ; 
Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires. 
As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 
Each  thrilis  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 
Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course. 
And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 
The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore ; 
From  Reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newtox  soar. 
\\Tiat  diiferent  spheres  to  human  bliss  assign'd ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind ! 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought  ; 
Oh  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

The  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share. 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer. 
Turns  on  the  neighboring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy  ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees. 
The  smoke's  blue  wreaths  ascending  with  the  breeze, 
The  village-common  spotted  white  v.-ith  sheep. 
The   church-ya^    yews   round   which   his   fathers 

sleep;  (3f 
All  rouse  Reflection's  sadly-pleasing  train, 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknowTi  before, 
And,  wnth  the  sons  of  Science,  wooed  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  their  strange  expanse  of  sail ; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm  yet  fond  adieu,  (4) 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carv^ed  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed, 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer-beauty  fled. 


Long  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast, 
Long  watch'd  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast  j 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  liis  eye, 
And  fairy-forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 
,  So  Scotia's  Queen,  (5)  as  slowly  dawn'd  the  da)% 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless'd  the  beacon's  glimmering  height 
That  faintly  tipt  the  leathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray'd 
Each  castled  cliff,  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touch'd  the   talisman's  resistless  spring. 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing 
Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire,  (6) 
As  summer-clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire. 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth, 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  home-felt  pleasure  (7)  prompts  the  Patriot's 

sigh; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  yomig  Foscari,  (8)  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  Muse  relate, 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away, 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey. 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  Hope  could  grant  no  more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart :  (9) 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance  through  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  the  gale  ; 
In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell.  (10) 
'T  was  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb  (11) 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom : 
So  Tully  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time,  (12 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  subhme ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honor'd  dust  disclosed, 
The  immortal  Sage  of  SjTacuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung, 
WTiere  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  niin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
In  Rome's  great  forum,  \vho  but  hears  him  roll 
His  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  ? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives  : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives ! 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid  ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  wdow  loves  to  weep,  (13)" 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  bin^t  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  War  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace ; 
What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo-touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast ; 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside. 
And  wake  the  tear  to  Pity's  self  denied. 

The  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Condemn'd  to  climb  his  mountain-clifl^s  no  more, 
If  chance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild  (14) 
Which  on  those  clifis  his  infant  hours  beguiled, 

li 


32 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


(Emblem  of  Truth  divine,  whose  secret  ray 
Enters  the  soul,  and  makes  the  darkness  day !) 
"Pedro!  Rodrigo!  (50)  there,  methought  it  shone! 
There — in  tne  west!  and  now,  alas,  'tis  gone! — 
'T  was  all  a  dream!  we  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain ! 
— But  mark,  and  speak  not,  there  it  comes  again! 
It  moves ! — what  form  unseen,  what  being  there 
With  torch-like  lustre  fires  the  murky  air  ? 
His  histmcts,  passions,  say  how  like  our  owti! 
Oh!  when  will  day  reveal  a  world  unknown?" 


CANTO  X. 


Cora— luxuriant  Vegetation— the  Humming-bird- 
Fountain  of  Youth. 


-the 


CANTO  IX. 


The  New  World. 

Long  on  the  wave  the  morning  mists  reposed, 
Then  broke — and,  melting  into  light,  disclosed 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods : 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  w^ept  as  at  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  bless'd  the  wondrous  Man  ; 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
"Glory  to  God!"  urmumber'd  voices  sung, 
"  Glory  to  God ! "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung. 
Voices  that  hail'd  Creation's  primal  morn, 
And  to  the  Shepherds  sung  a  Savior  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  (51)  and,  kneeling,  kiss'd  the  shore. 
But  what  a   scene   was   there!  (52)    Nymphs   of 

romance,  (53) 
Youths  graceful  r  s  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance. 
Spring  from  the  glades,  and  down  the  alleys  peep. 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep. 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"  Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun! " 
When  hark,  a  signal-shot !  The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame! 
They  saw,  they  heard;  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures  so  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought. 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 
Check'd  their  light  footsteps — statue-like,  they  stood. 
As  worshipp'd  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves !  The  warrior's  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  slate !  (54) 
Still,  where  it  moves,  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold,' 
And  ebon  chair  '  of  many  a  serpent-fold ; 
These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass.  (55) 
W^hat  long-drawn  tube  (56)  transports  the  gazer  home, 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'T  is  here :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light  - 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight  ; 
As  man  to  man  another  self  disclose. 
That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows ! 


1  F.  Columbus,  c.  28  and  34. 


2  F.  Columbus,  c. 


Then  Cora  came,  the  yourgest  of  her  race, 
And  in  her  hands  she  hid  her  lovely  face ; 
Yet  oft  by  stealth  a  timid  glance  she  cast. 
And  now  with  playful  step  the  Mirror  pass'd. 
Each  bright  reflection  brighter  than  the  last ! 
And  oft  behind  it  flew,  and  oft  before  ; 
The'more  she  search'd,  pleased  and  perplex'd  the  mor 
And  look'd  and  laugh'd,  and  blush'd  with  quick  si 

prise  ; 
Her  lips  all  mirth,  all  ecstasy  her  eyes! 

But  soon  the  telescope  attracts  her  view ; 
And  lo,  her  lover  in  his  light  canoe 
Rocking,  at  noon-tide,  on  the  silent  sea, 
Before  her  lies!  It  cannot,  cannot  be. 
Late  as  he  left  the  shore,  she  linger'd  there, 
Tfll,  less  and  less,  he  melted  into  air! — 
Sigh  after  sigh  steals  from  her  gentle  frame. 
And  said — that  murmur — was  it  not  his  name  ? 
She  turns,  and  thinks ;  and,  lost  in  wild  amaze. 
Gazes  again,  and  could  for  ever  gaze ! 

Nor  can  thy  flute,  Alonso,  now  excite, 
As  in  Valencia,  when,  with  fond  delight, 
Francisca,  waking,  to  the  lattice  flew. 
So  soon  to  love  and  to  be  wretched  too! 
Hers  through  a  convent-grate  to  send  her  last  adic 
— Yet  who  now  comes  tuicall'd ;  and  round  and  roui 
And  near  and  nearer  flutters  to  its  sound ; 
Then  stirs  not,  breathes  not — on  enchanted  grouts 
Who  now  lets  fall  the  fl.owers  she  cuU'd  to  wear 
When  he,  who  promised,  should  at  eve  be  there; 
And  faintly  smiles,  and  hangs  her  head  aside 
The  tear  that  glistens  on  her  cheek  to  hide ! 
Ah,  who  but  Cora  ? — till  inspired,  possess'd, 
At  once  she  springs  and  clasps  it  to  her  breast! 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends 
Kindred  first  met!  by  sacred  instinct  Friends! 
Through  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize,  '■■ 
Through  plantain- walks  where  not  a  sim-beam  pla 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty ; 
Ceiba,  (58)  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time ! 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks !  (59)  there,  quiver 

rise 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening  skies! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,  (60)  the  fairj^  king  of  flowers  (G 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  (62)  thro'  the  fragrant  hoi 
Gem  full  of  Hfe,  and  joy,  and  song  divine. 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine.  (63) 
.    'Twas  he  that  stmg,  if  ancient  Fame  speaks  tn, 
"  Come!  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth! 
I  quaflf  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise, 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  !  " 
For  there  call'd  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower ! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  li^■ing  waters  roll'd 
'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold !  (64 

40 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


33 


CANTO  XL 


Evening — a  banquet — the  ghost  of  Cazziva. 

The  tamarind  closed  her  leaves ;  the  marmoset 
Dream'd  on  his  bough,  and  play'd  the  m.imic  yet. 
Fresh  from  the  lake  the  breeze  of  twilight  blew, 
Aiid  vast  and  deep  the  mountain-shadows  grew ; 
When  many  a  iire-fly,  sliooting  through  the  glade, 
Spangled  the  locks  of  many  a  lovely  maid, 
Who  now  danced  forth  to  strew  our  path  with  flowers, 
And  hymn  our  welcome  to  celestial  bowers.' 

There  odorous  lamps  adom'd  the  festal  rite. 
And  guavas  blush'd  as  in  the  vales  of  light.  (65) 
There  silent  sat  many  an  unbidden  Guest,  (66) 
Whose  st^dfast  looks  a  secret  dread  irapress'd : 
Not  there  forgot  the  sacred  fruit  that  fed 
At  nightly  feasts  the  Spirits  of  the  Dead, 
Mingling  in  scenes  that  mirth  to  mortals  give. 
But  by  their  sadness  know^n  from  those  that  live. 

There  met,  as  erst,  within  the  wonted  grove. 
Unmarried  girls  and  youths  that  died  for  love  I 
Sons  now  beheld  their  ancient  sires  again , 
And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain  !  (67) 

But  whence  that  sigh  ?  'T  was  from  a  heart  that 
broke ! 
And  w^hence  that  voice  ?  As  from  the  grave  it  spoke  ! 
And  who,  as  unresolved  the  feast  to  share, 
Sits  half-withdrawn  in  faded  splendor  there  ? 
T  is  he  of  yore,  the  warrior  and  the  sage. 
Whose  lips  have  moved  in  prayer  from  age  to  age ; 
Whose  eyes,  that  wander'd  as  in  search  before, 
Now  on  Columbus  fix'd — to  search  no  more ! 
Cazziva,  (68)  gifted  in  his  day  to  know 
The  gathering  signs  of  a  long  night  of  woe ; 
Gifted  by  those  who  give  but  to  enslave  ; 
No  rest  in  death !  no  refuge  in  the  grave ! 
— With  sudden  spring  as  at  the  shout  of  war, 
He  flies  !  and,  turning  in  his  flight,  from  far 
Glares  through  the  gloom  like  some  portentous  star ! 
Unseen,  unheard  ! — Hence,  Minister  of  111 !  (69) 
Hence,  't  is  not  yet  the  hour !  though  come  it  will ! 
They  that  foretold — too  soon  shall  they  fulfil ;  (70) 
When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep,  (71) 
And  deeds  are  done  that  make  the  Angels  weep ! 

Hark,  o'er  the  busy  mead  the  shell  -  proclaims 
Triumphs,  and  masques,  and  high  heroic  games. 
And  now  the  old  sit  round ;  and  now  the  young 
Climb  the  green  boughs,  the  murmuring  doves  among. 
"WTio  claims  the  prize,  when  winged  feet  contend ; 
When  twanging  bows  the  flaming  arrows  ^  send  ? 
Who  stands  self-centred  in  the  field  of  fame, 
And,  grappling,  flings  to  earth  a  giant's  frame  ? 
Whilst  all,  with  anxious  hearts  and  eager  eyes, 
Bend  as  he  bends,  and,  as  he  rises,  rise  I 
And  Cora's  self,  in  pride  of  beauty  here, 
Trembles  with  grief  and  joy,  and  hope  and  fear ! 
(She  who,  the  fairest,  ever  flew  the  first, 
With  cup  of  balm  to  quench  his  burriing  thirst ; 
Knelt  at  his  head,  her  fan-leaf  in  her  hand, 
And  humm'd  the  air  that  pleased  him,  while  she  fann'd) 
How  blest  his  lot ! — though,  by  the  muse  unsting, 
His  name  shall  perish,  when  his  knell  is  rung. 


That  night,  transported,  with  a  sigh  I  said, 
'T  is  all  a  dream !"' — Now,  like  a  dream,  't  is  fled  ; 
And  many  and  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away. 
And  I  alone  remain  to  watch  and  pray ! 
Yet  oft  in  darkness,  on  my  bed  of  straw, 
Oft  I  awake  and  think  on  w  hat  I  saw ! 
The  groves,  the  birds,  the  youths,  the  nymphs  recall, 
And  Cora,  loveliest,  sweetest  of  them  all. 


CANTO  XIL 


A  Vision. 


J  P.  Martyr,  dec.  i,  5. 
3  Rochefort,  c.  zx. 
6 


2  P.  Martyr,  dec.  iii.  c.  7. 
D2 


Still  would  I  speak  of  Him  before  I  went, 
Wiio  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent,  (72) 
And,  dying,  left  a  world  his  monument ; 
Still,  if  the  time  allow  'd  I  My  hour  draws  near  ; 
But  He  will  prompt  me  when  I  faint  with  fear. 
— Alas,  He  hears  me  not  I  He  cannot  hear ! 
****** 

Twice  the  moon  fill'd  her  silver  urn  with  light. 
Then  from  the  Throne  an  Angel  wing'd  his  flight 
He,  who  un  fix'd  the  compass,  and  assign'd 
O'er  the  wild  waves  a  pathway  to  the  wind ; 
Who,  while  approach'd  by  none  but  Spirits  pure, 
Wrought,  in  his  progress  through  the  dread  obscure. 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow — that  shall  endure !  (73j 

As  he  descended  through  the  upper  air. 
Day  broke  on  day  as  God  himself  were  there ! 
Before  the  great  Discoverer,  laid  to  rest. 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  address'd :  (74) 

"  The  w  ind  recalls  thee  ;  its  still  voice  obey, 
Millions  await  thy  coming ;  hence,  away! 
To  thee  blest  tidings  of  great  joy  consign'd, 
Another  Nature,  and  a  new  Mankind ! 
The  vain  to  dream,  the  wise  to  doubt  shall  cease ; 
Young  men  be  glad,  and  old  depart  in  peace !  i 
Hence  I  though  assembling  in  the  fields  of  air, 
Now,  in  a  night  of  clouds,  thy  Foes  prepare 
To  rock  the  globe  with  elemental  wars. 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars ;  (75) 
To  bid  the  meek  repine,  the  valiant  weep, 
And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep !  (76) 

"  Not  tben  to  leave  Thee!  to  their  vengeance  cast, 
Thy  heart  their  aliment,  their  dire  repast !  ^ 
****** 

To  other  eyes  shall  Mexico  unfold 
Her  feather'd  tapestries,  and  roofs  of  gold. 
To  other  eyes,  from  distant  chff  descried,  (77) 
Shall  the  Pacific  roll  his  ample  tide ; 
There  destined  soon  rich  argosies  to  ride. 
Chains  thy  reward!  beyond  the  Atlantic  wave 
Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave  I  (78) 
Thy  reverend  form,  (79)  to  time  and  grief  a  prey 
A  phantom  wandering  in  the  hght  of  day ! 

"  WTiat  though  thy  grey  hairs  to  the  dust  descena. 
Their  scent  shall  track  thee,  track  thee  to  the  end : 
Thy  sons  reproach'd  with  their  great  father's  fame. 
And  on  his  world  inscribed  another's  name ! 
That  world  a  prison-house,  full  of  sights  of  woe, 
WTiere  groans  burst  forth,  and  tears  in  torrents  flow 


1  P.  Martyr.  Epist.  133,  152. 

2  See  the  Eumenides  of  ^Eschylus,  v  305  etc 

3  Clavigero,  VII.  52. 

4  See  the  Eumenides,  v.  246 


41 


34 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


These  gardens  of  the  siin,  sacred  to  song, 
By  dogs  of  carnage,  (80)  howhng  loud  and  long, 
Swept — till  the  voj-ager,  in  the  desert  air,  (81) 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  alter'*  accents  there  I  (82) 

"  Not  thine  the  olive,  but  the  sword  to  bring, 
Not  peace,  but  war!  Yet  from  these  shores  shall  spring 
Peace  without  end ; '  from  these,  with  blood  defiled, 
Spread  the  pure  spirit  of  thy  Master  mild ! 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend,  (83) 
Arts  to  adorn,  and  arms  but  to  defend. 
Assembling  here,  (84)  all  nations  shall  be  blest  ; 
The  sad  be  comforted,  the  weary  rest  ; 
Untouch'd  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave;  (85) 
And  He  shall  rule  the  world  he  died  to  save ! 

"  Hence,  and  rejoice.   The  glorious  work  is  done. 
A  spark  is  thrown  that  shall  echpse  the  sun! 
And  though  bad  men  shall  long  thy  course  pursue. 
As  erst  the  ravening  brood  o'er  chaos  flew,^ 
He,  whom  I  serve,  shall  vindicate  his  reign  ; 
The  spoiler  spoii'd  of  all ;  (86)  the  slayer  slain;  (87) 
The  tyrant's  self,  oppressing  and  opprest, 
'Mid  gems  and  gold  unenvied  and  vmblest :  (88) 
While  to  the  starry  sphere  thy  name  shall  rise, 
(Not  there  unsung  thy  generous  enterprise !) 
Thine  in  all  hearts  to  dwell — by  Fame  enshrined. 
With  those  the  Few,  that  live  but  for  Mankind : 
Tliine  evermore,  transcendant  happiness  ! 
World  beyond  world  to  visit  and  to  bless." 


O.v  the  two  last  leaves,  and  written  in  another 
hand,  are  some  stanzas  in  the  romance  or  ballad  meas- 
ure of  the  Spaniards.  The  subject  is  an  adventure 
soon  related. 

Thy  lonely  watch-tower,  Larenille, 

Had  lost  the  western  sun ; 

And  loud  and  long  from  hill  to  hill 

Echoed  the  evening-gun, 

When  Hernan,  rising  on  his  oar, 

Shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  shore. 

—"Those  lights  are  on  St.  Mary's  Isle  ; 

They  glimmer  from  the  sacred  pile."  ' 

The  waves  were  rough;  the  hour  was  late, 

But  soon  across  the  Tinto  borne, 

Thrice  he  blew  the  signal-horn, 

He  blew  and  would  not  wait. 

Home  by  his  dangerous  path  he  went; 

Leaving,  in  rich  habiliment, 

Two  Strangers  at  tlis  Convent-gate. 
They  ascended  by  steps  hewn  out  in  the  rock;  and, 
having  asked  for  admittance,  were  lodged  there. 

Brothers  in  arms  tlie  Guests  appear'd ; 

The  Youngest  with  a  Princely  grace! 

Short  and  sable  w^as  his  beari. 

Thoughtful  and  wan  his  face. 

His  velvet  cap  a  medal  bore. 

And  ermine  fringed  his  broiderd  vest; 

And,  ever  sparkling  on  his  breast, 

An  image  of  St.  John  he  wore.* 
The  eldest  had  a  rougher  aspect,  and  there  was  craft 
m  his  eye.  He  stood  a  little  behind  in  a  long  black 
mantle," his  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword ;  and 
iiis  white  hat  and  white  shoes  gUttered  in  the  moon- 
shine.* 


"  Not  here  unwelcome,  tho'  unknown. 

Enter  and  rest !"'  the  Friar  said. 

The  moon,  that  through  the  portal  shone. 

Shone  on  his  reverend  head. 

Through  many  a  court  and  gallery  dim 

Slowly  he  led,  the  burial-hynm 

Swelling  from  the  distant  choir. 

But  now  the  holy  men  retire ; 

The  arched  cloisters  issuing  thro', 

In  long  long  order,  two  and  ^  a^o. 

***** 

When  other  sounds  had  died  away, 

And  the  waves  were  heard  alone, 

They  enter'd,  though  unused  to  pray, 

Where  God  was  worshipp"d,  night  and  day, 

And  the  dead  knelt  round  in  stone  ; 

They  enter'd,  and  from  aisle  to  aisle 

Wander'd  with  folded  arms  awhile. 

Where  on  his  altar-tomb  (69)  reclined 

The  crosier'd  Abbot ;  and  the  Knight 

In  harness  for  the  Christian  fight. 

His  hands  in  supplication  join"d;— 

Then  said  as  in  a  solemn  mood, 

"  Now  stand  we  where  Columbus  stood!" 
***** 

"  Perez,"  thou  good  old  man,"  they  cried, 

"  And  art  thou  in  thy  place  of  rest  ?— 

Though  in  the  western  world  His  grave, 2  (90) 

That  other  world,  the  gift  He  gave,^ 

Would  ye  were  sleeping  side  by  side ! 

Of  all  his  friends  He  loved  thee  best." 
***** 

The  supper  in  the  chamber  done. 

Much  of  a  Southern  Sea  they  spake, 

And  of  that  glorious  city*  won 

Near  the  setting  of  the  Sun, 

Throned  in  a  silver  lake  ; 

Of  seven  kings  in  chains  of  gold,* 

And  deeds  of  death  by  tongue  untold. 

Deeds  such  as,  breathed  in  secret  there, 

Had  shaken  the  Confession-chair  I 

Tire  Eldest  swore  by  our  Lady,^  the  Youngest  by 

his  conscience ; '  while  the  Franciscan,  sitting  by  in 

his  grey  habit,  turned  away  and   crossed  liimself 

again  and  again.    "  Here  is  a  little  book,"  said  he  at 

last,  "  the  work  of  him  in  his  shroud  below.    It  tells 

of  things  you  have  mentioned ;  and,  were  Cortes  and 

Pizarro  here,  it  might  perhaps  make  them  reflect  for 

a  moment."    The  youngest  smiled  as  he  took  it  into 

his  hand.     He  read  it  aloud  to  his  companion  with 

an  unfaltering  voice ;  but,  when  he  laid  it  dowTi,  a 

silence  ensued ;  nor  was  he  seen  to  smile  again  that 

night."     "The  curse  is  heavy,"  said  he  at  parting, 

"  but  Cortes  may  live  to  disappoint  it." — "  Ay,  and 

Pizarro  too  I" 

***  A  circumstance,  recorded  by  Herrera,  renders  this  visit 
not  improbable.  "  In  May  loifl,  Cortes  arrived  unexpectedly  at 
Pales;  and,  soon  after  he  had  landed,  he  and  Pizarro  met  and 
rejoiced;  and  it  was  remarkable  that  they  should  meet,  as  they 
were  two  of  the  most  renowned  men  in  the  world."  B.  Diaz 
makes  no  mention  of  the  interview:  but,  relating  an  occurrence 
that  look  place  at  this  time  in  Palos,  says,  "  that  Cortes  was 
now  absent  at  Nuestra  Senora  de  la  Rabida."  The  Convent 
is  within  half  a  lea  sue  of  the  town. 


■  See  Washington's  farewell-address  to  his  fellow-citizens. 

2  See  Paradise  Lost,  X.  3  The  Convent  of  Rabida. 

4  See  Bernal  Diaz,  c.  203 :  and  also  a  well-known  portrait  of 
Cortes,  ascribed  to  Titian.  Cortes  wks  now  in  the  43d,  Pizarro 
•n  'he  60th  year  of  his  age         5  Augustin.  Zarate.  lib.  iv,  c.  9. 


1  Late  Superior  of  the  House. 

2  In  the  chancel  of  the  cathedral  of  St.  Domingo. 

3  The  words  of  the  epitaph.    "  A  Castilia  y  a  Leon  nuav» 
Mundo  dio  Colon."  4  I\!exico 

5  Afterwards  the  arms  of  Cortes  and  his  descendants. 

6  Fernandez,  lib.  ii,  c.  63.  7  B.  Diaz,  c.  203. 
8  "  After  the  death  of  Guatimotzin,"  says  B.  Diaz,  "  he  be 

came  gloomy  and  restless;  rising  continually  from  his  bed,  and 
wandering  about  in  the  dark."'— "Nothing  prospered  withbinii 
and  it  was  ascribed  to  the  curses  he  was  loaded  with." 

42 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


35 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  page  2S,  col.  2. 

descried  of  yore. 

In  him  was  fulfilled  the  ancient  prophecy- 


-venient  annis 


Secula  seris,  quibus  Oceanus 
Vincula  reruin  laxit,  etc. 

Seneca  in  Medea,  v.  374. 
Which  Tasso  has  imitated  in  his  Gierusalemme 
Liberata  : 

Tempo  verrk,  che  fian  d'Ercole  i  segni 
Favola  vile,  etc.  G.  xv,  30. 

The  Poem  opens  on  Friday,  the  14th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1492. 

Note  2,  page  28,  col.  2. 

the  great  Commander. 

In  the  original,  El  Almirante.  "In  Spanish  Amer- 
ica," says  M.  de  Humboldt,  "when  El  Almirante  is 
pronoimced  without  the  addition  of  a  name,  that  of 
Columbus  is  understood  ;  as,  from  the  lips  of  a  Mexi- 
can, El  Marchese  signifies  Cortes ;"  and  as  among  the 
Florentines,  ll  Segretario  has  always  signified  Mach- 
iavel. 

Note  3,  page  28,  col.  2. 
"  Thee  bath  it  pleased— Thy  will  be  done  !"  he  said. 
"  It  has  pleased  our  Lord  to  grant  me  faith  and  as- 
surance for  this  enterprise — He  has  opened  my  un- 
derstanding, and  made  me  most  willing  to  go."    See 
his  Life  by  his  son,  Ferd.  Columbus,  entitled,  Hist,  del 
Almirante  Don  Christoval  Colon,  c.  4  and  37. 
Note  4,  page  28,  col.  2. 
Whose  voice  is  truth,  whose  wisdom  is  from  heaven. 
The  compass  might  well  be  an  object  of  supersti- 
tion. A  behef  is  said  to  prevail  even  at  this  day,  that 
it  will  refuse  to  traverse  when  there  is  a  dead  body 
on  board. — Hist,  des  Navig.  aux  Terres  Australes. 
Note  5,  page  28,  col.  2. 
Columbus  erred  not. 
When  these  regions  were  to  be  illuminated,  saj'-s 
Acosta,  cum  divino  concilio  decretum  esset,  prospec- 
tum  etiam  diidnitus  est,  ut  tam  longi  itineris  dux  cer- 
tus  hominibus  praeberetur. — De  Natura  Noii  Orbis. 

A  romantic  circumstance  is  related  of  some  early 
navigator  in  the  Histoire  Gen.  des  Voyages,  I.  i.  2.  "  On 
trouva  dans  I'ile  de  Cuervo  une  statue  equestre,  cou- 
verte  d'lm  manteau,  mais  la  tete  nue,  qui  tenoit  de  la 
main  gauche  la  bride  du  cheval,  et  qui  montroit  I'oc- 
cident  de  la  main  droite.  II  y  avoit  sur  le  bas  d'un 
roc  quelques  lettres  gravees,  qui  ne  furent  point  en- 
tendues ;  mais  il  parut  clairement  que  le  signe  de  la 
main  regardoit  I'Amerique." 

Note  6,  page  28,  col.  2. 

He  spoke,  and,  at  his  call,  a  mighty  Wind. 

The  more  Christian  opinion  is  that  God,  at  the 

icngth,  with  eyes  of  compassion  as  it  were,  looldng 

downe  from  heaven,  intended  even  then  to  rayse 

those  windes  of  mercy,  whereby this  newe 

worlde  receyved   the  hope  of  salvation. — Certaine 
Preambles  to  the  Decades  of  the  Ocean. 

Note  7,  page  28,  col.  2. 
Folded  their  arms  and  sat. 
To  return  was  deemed  impossible,  as  it  blew  al- 


waj's  from  home. — F.  Columbus,  c.  19.  Nos  pamdi 
— at  pater  Anchises — ItBtus. 

Note  8,  page  28,  col.  2. 
What  vast  foundations  in  the  Abyss  are  there. 
Tasso  employs  preternatural  agents  on  a  similar 
occasion, 

Trappassa.edecco  in  quel  silvestre  loco 
Sorge  improvvisa  la  citta  del  foco.  xlii,  33. 

Gli  incarui  d'Ismeno,  che  ingannano  con  delusioni,  al 
tro  non  significano,  che  la  falsita  delle  ragioni,  e  delle 
persuasioni,  la  qual  si  genera  nella  moltitudine,  e 
varieta  de'  pareri,  e  de'  discorsi  umani. 

Note  9,  page  28,  col.  2. 

Atlantic  kings  their  barbarous  pomp  display'd. 
See  Plato's  Timseus ;  where  mention  is  made  of 
mighty  kingdoms,  which,  in  a  day  and  a  night,  had 
disappeared  in  the  Atlantic,  rendering  its  waters  un- 
navigable. 

Si  quEeras  Helicen  et  Burin,  Acbaidas  urbes, 

Invenies  sub  aquis. 
At  the  destruction  of  Callao,  in  1747,  no  more  than 
one  of  all  the  inhabitants  escaped ;  and  he  by  a  prov- 
idence the  most  extraordinary.  This  man  was  on  the 
fort  that  overlooked  the  harbor,  going  to  strike  the 
flag,  when  he  perceived  the  sea  to  retire  to  a  consider- 
able distance;  and  then,  swelling  mountain-high,  it 
returned  with  great  \-iolence.  The  people  ran  from 
their  houses  in  terror  and  confusion ;  he  heard  a  cry 
of  Miserere  rise  from  all  parts  of  the  city ;  and  imme- 
diately all  was  silent;  the  sea  had  entirely  over- 
whelmed it,  and  buried  it  for  ever  in  its  bosom :  but 
the  same  wave  that  destroyed  it,  drove  a  little  boat 
by  the  place  where  he  stood,  into  which  he  threw 
himself  and  was  saved. 

Note  10,  page  29,  col.  1 
"  Land  I"  and  his  voice  in  faltering  accents  died. 
Historians  are  not  silent  on  the  subject.  The  sail- 
ors, according  to  Herrera,  saw  the  signs  of  an  inun- 
dated country  (tierras  anegadas) ;  and  it  was  the  gen- 
eral expectation  that  they  should  end  their  lives  there, 
as  others  had  done  in  the  frozen  sea,  "  where  St. 
Amaro  suffers  no  ship  to  stir  backward  or  forward." 
F.  Columbus,  c.  19. 

Note  11,  page  29,  col.  1. 
And  (whence  or  why  from  many  an  age  withheld). 
The  author  seems  to  have  anticipated  his  long 
slumber  in  the  library  of  the  Fathers. 
Note  12,  page  29,  col.  1. 

Hast  led  thy  servant 

"  They  may  give  me  what  name  they  please.     I 
am  servant  of  Him,"  etc. — F.  Columbus,  c.  2. 

Note  13,  page  29,  col.  1, 
From  world  to  world  their  steady  course  they  keep. 
As  St.  Christopher  carried  Christ  over  the  deep 
waters,  so  Columbus  went  over  safe,  himself  and  his 
company. — ^F.  Columbus,  c.  1. 

Note  14,  page  29,  col.  1. 
And,  rising,  shoot  in  columns  to  the  skies. 
Water-spouts. — See  Ebwxrvs's  History  of  the  Wesf 
Indies,  I.  12.  Note. 

Note  15,  page  29,  col.  1. 
Though  changed  my  cloth  of  gold  for  amice  grey.— 
See  the  Inscription,  p.  27.     Many  of  the  first  di»- 

43 


SG 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


coverers,  if  we  may  believe  B.  Diaz  and  other  con- 
temporary WTiters,  ended  their  days  in  a  hermitage, 
or  a  cloister. 

Note  IG,  page  29,  col.  1. 

'T  was  in  the  deep,  immeasurable  cave 

Of  Andes. 
Vast  indeed  must  be  those  dismal  regions,  if  it  be 
true,  as  conjectured  (Kircher.  Mund.  Subt.  I.  202), 
that  Etna,  in  her  eruptions,  has  discharged  twenty 
times  her  original  bulk.  Well  might  she  be  called  by 
Euripides  (Troades,  v.  222)  The  Mo'her  of  Mountains; 
yet  Etna  herself  is  but  "  a  mere  firework,  when  com- 
pared to  the  burning  summits  of  the  Andes." 

Note  17,  page  29,  col.  2. 
One-half  the  globe ;  from  pole  to  pole  confess'd. 

Gods,  yet  confessed  later. — Milto.v. lis  ne  lais- 

sent  pas  d'en  etre  les  esclaves,  et  de  les  honorer  plus 
que  le  grand  Esprit,  qui  de  sa  nature  est  bon. — 
Lafitau. 

Note  IS,  page  29,  col.  2. 
Where  Plata  and  Maragnon  meet  the  main. 
Rivers  of  South  America.     Their  collision  with 
the  tide  has  the  effect  of  a  tempest. 

Note  19,  page  29,  col.  2. 
Of  Huron  or  Ontario,  inland  seas. 
Lakes  of  North  America.  Huron  is  above  a  thou- 
sand miles  in  circumference.  Ontario  receives  the 
waters  of  the  Niagara,  so  famous  for  its  falls ;  and 
discharges  itself  into  the  Atlantic  by  the  river  St. 
Lawrence. 

Note  20,  page  29,  col.  2. 
By  Ocean  severed  from  a  world  of  shade 
La  plupart  de  ces  iles  ne  sont  en  effet  que  des 
pointes  de.raontagnes  :  "et  la  mer,  qui  est  au-dela,  est 
une  vrai  mer  Mediterranee. — Buffon. 

Note  21,  page  29,  col.  2. 
Hung  in  the  tempest  o'er  the  troubled  main. 
The  dominion  of  a  bad  angel  over  an  unknown  sea, 
infestandole  con  sus  torhellinos  y  tempestades,  and  his 
flight  before  a  Christian  hero,  are  described  in  glow- 
ing language  by  Ovalle. — Hist,  de  Chile,  IV.  8. 

Note  22,  page  29,  col.  2. 
No  voice,  as  erst,  shall  in  the  desert  rise ; 

Alluding  to  the  oracles  of  the  Islanders,  so  soon  to 
become  silent;  and  particularly  to  a  prophecy,  deliv- 
ered down  from  their  ancestors,  and  sung  with  loud 
lamentations  (Petr.  Martyr,  dec.  3,  lib.  7)  at  their  sol- 
emn festivals  (Herrera,  I,  iii,  4)  that  the  coimtry  would 
be  laid  waste  on  the  arrival  of  strangers,  completely 
clad,  from  a  region  near  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Ibid.  II, 
5,  2  It  is  said  that  Cazziva,  a  great  Cacique,  after 
long  fasting  and  many  ablutions,  had  an  inter\dew 
with  one  of  the  Zemi,  who  announced  to  him  tliis 
terrible  event  (F.  Columbus,, c.  62),  as  the  oracles  of 
Latona,  according  to  Herodotus  (II,  152)  predicted 
the  overthrow  of  eleven  kings  of  Egypt,  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  men  of  brass,  risen  out  of  the  sea. 

Nor  did  this  prophecy  exist  among  the  Islanders 
alone.  It  influenced  the  councils  of  Montezuma,  and 
extended  almtfct  universally  over  the  forests  of  Amer- 
ica. Cortes.  Herrera.  Gomara.  "  The  demons  whom 
they  worshipped, '  says  Acosta,  "  in  this  instance  told 
them  the  truth." 


Note  23,  page  29,  col.  2. 
He  spoke  ;  and  all  was  silence,  all  was  night ! 
These  scattered  fragments  may  be  compared  to 
shreds  of  old  arras,  or  reflections  from  a  river  broken 
and  confused  by  the  oar ;  and  now  and  then  perhaps 
the  imagination  of  the  reader  may  supply  more  than 
is  lost.  Si  qua  latent,  meliora  putat    "  It  is  remarka- 
ble," says  the  elder  Pliny,  "  that  thr  Iris  of  Aristides, 
the  Tyndarides  of  Nicomachus,  and   the  Venus  of 
Apelles,  are  held   in  higher  admiration  than  their 
finished  works."  And  is  it  not  so  in  almost  everything  ? 
Call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold — 

Note  24,  page  30,  col.  1. 
The  soldier,  etc. 
In  the  Lusiad,  to  beguile  the  heavy  hours  at  sea, 
Veloso  relates  to  his  companions  of  the  second  watch 
the  story  of  the  Twelve  Knights.  L.  vi. 

Note  25,  page  30,  col.  1. 
So  Fortune  smiled,  careless  of  sea  or  land' 
Among  those  who  went  with  Columbus,  were  many 
adventurers,  and  gentlemen  of  the  court.  Primero  was 
the  game  then  in  fashion. — See  Vega,  p.  2,  Ub.  iii,  c.  9 
Note  26,  page  30,  col.  1. 
Yet  who  but  He  undaunted  could  explore. 
Many  sighed  and  wept ;  and  eveiy  hour  seemed  a 
year,  says  Herrera. — I,  i,  9  and  10. 

Note  27,  page  30,  col.  2. 
The  solemn  march,  the  vows  in  concert  given. 
His  public  procession  to  the  convent  of  Rabida  on 
the  day  before  he  set  sail.  It  was  there  that  his  sons- 
had  received  their  education ;  and  he  himself  appears 
to  have  passed  some  time  there,  the  venerable  Guard- 
ian, Juan  Perez  de  Marchena,  being  his  zealous  and 
affectionate  friend.  The  ceremonies  of  his  departure 
and  return  are  represented  in  many  of  the  fresco 
paintings  in  the  palaces  of  Genoa. 

Note  28,  page  30,  col.  2. 
While  his  dear  boys — ah,  on  his  neck  they  hung. 
"  But  I  was  most  afflicted,  when  I  thought  of  my 
tW'O  sons,  whom  I  had  left  behind  me  in  a  strange 

countrj' before  I  had  done,  or  at  least  could  be 

known  to  have  done,  anything  which  might  incline 
your  highnesses  to  remember  them.  And  though  I 
comforted  myself  with  the  reflection  that  our  Lord 
would  not  suffer  so  earnest  an  endeavor  for  the  ex- 
altation of  his  church  to  come  to  nothing,  yet  I  con- 
sidered that,  on  account  of  my  unworthiness,"  etc. — 
F.  Columbus,  c.  37. 

Note  29,  page  30,  col.  2. 

The  great  Gonzalo. 

Gonzalo  Femandes,  already  known  by  the  name 

of  the  Great  Captain.     Granada  surrendered  on  the 

2d  of  January,  1492.  Columbus  set  sail  on  the  3d  of 

August  following. 

Note  30,  page  30,  col.  2. 
Though  Roldan,  etc. 
Probably  a  soldier  of  fortune.     There  were  more 
than  one  of  the  name  on  board. 

Note  31,  page  31,  col.  1. 

The  Cross  shone  forth  in  everlasting  light ! 

,     The  Cross  of  the  South ;  "  ima  Croce  maravagliosa,  e 

44 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


37 


di  tanta  bellezza,"  says  Andrea  Corsali,  a  Florentine, 
•writing  to  Giuliano  of  Medicis,  in  1515,  "  che  non 
mi  pare  ad  alcuno  segno  celeste  doverla  comparare. 
E  s'io  non  rai  inganno,  credo  che  sia  qiiesto  il  crusero 
di  che  Dante  parlo  nel  principle  del  Purgatorio  con 
spirito  profetico,  dicendo, 

I'mi  volsi  a  man  destra,  e  posi  mente, 
Air  altro  polo,  e  vidi  quattro  stelle,  etc." 

Note  32,  page  31,  col.  1. 
Roc  of  the  West !  to  him  all  empire  given  I 
Le  Condor  est  le  meme  oiseau  que  le  Roc  des 
Orientaux. — Buffo.v.  "  By  the  PeruA-ians,"  says  Vega, 
"  he  Avas  anciently  woi-shipped  ;  and  there  were  those 
who  claimed  their  descent  from  liim."  In  these  de- 
generate days  he  still  ranks  above  the  Eagle. 

Note  33,  page  31,  col.  1. 

Who  bears  Axalhua's  dragon-folds  to  heaven. 

As  the  Roc  of  the  East  is  said  to  have  carried  off 

the  Elephant.    See  Marco  Polo. — Axalhua,  or  the 

Emperor,  is  the  name  in  the  JMexican  language  for 

the  great  serpent  of  America. 

Note  34,  page  31,  col.  1. 
To  where  Alaska's  wintry  wilds  retire. 
Northern   extremity   of   the    New    World. — See 
Cook's  last  Voyage. 

Note  35,  page  31,  col.  1. 

From  mines  of  gold 

Mmes  of  Chili ;  which  extend,  says  Ovalle,  to  the 
Strait  of  Magellan.  I,  4. 

Note  36,  page  31,  col.  1. 

High-hung  in  forests  to  the  casing  snows. 

A  custom  not  peculiar  to  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

The  Tunguses  of  Siberia  hang  their  dead  on  trees  ; 

"  parceque  la  terre  ne  se  laisse  point  ouvrir." — M. 

Pauw. 

Note  37,  page  31,  col.  1. 

and,  through  that  dismal  night. 

"  Aquella  noche  triste."  The  night,  on  which 
Cortes  made  his  famous  retreat  from  JNIexico  through 
the  street  of  Tlacopan,  still  goes  by  the  name  of  La 

NOCHE  TRISTE. HuMBOLDT. 

Note  38,  page  31,  col.  1. 
By  his  white  plume  reveal'd  and  buskins  white. 
Pizarro  used  to  dress  in  this  fashion ;  after  Gonzalo, 
whom  he  had  served  under  in  Italy. 

Note  39,  page  31,  col.  1. 

O'er  him  a  Vampire  his  dark  wings  display 'd. 

A  species  of  bat  in  S.  America ;  which  refreshes 

oy  the  gentle  agitation  of  its  wings,  while  it  sucks 

the  blood  of  the  sleeper,  turning  his  sleep  into  death. 

— Ulloa. 

Note  40,  page  31,  col.  1. 

'T  was  Merlon's  self,  covering  with  dreadful  shade. 

Now  one. 

Now  other,  as  their  shape  served  best  his  end. 
Undoubtedly,  says  Herrera,  the  Infernal  Spirit  as- 
sumed various  shapes  in  that  region  of  the  world. 

Note  41,  page  31,  col.  1. 
Then,  inly  gliding,  etc. 
The  original  passage  is  here  translated  at  jfull 
en^h. 

Then,  inly  gliding  like  a  subtle  flame, 

Tfaiice,  with  a  cry  that  thrill'd  the  moital  frame. 


Call'd  on  the  Spirit  within.    Disdaining  flight, 

Calmly  she  rose,  collecting  all  her  might. ' 

Dire  was  the  dark  encounter  1  Long  unquell'd. 

Her  sacred  seat,  sovereign  and  pure,  she  held. 

At  length  the  great  Foe  binds  her  for  his  prize. 

And  awful,  as  in  death,  the  body  lies ! 

Not  long  to  slumber  I  In  an  evil  hour 

Inform'd  and  lifted  by  the  unknown  Power, 

It  starts,  it  speaks  I  "  Wehve,  we  breathe  no  more '."  etc. 

Many  a  modern  reader  will  exclaim  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Pococurante,  "Quelle  triste  extravagance!" 
Let  a  great  theologian  of  that  day,  a  monk  of  the 
Augustine  order,  be  consulted  on  the  subject.  "  Corpus 
ille  perimere  vel  jugulare  potest;  nee  id  mod6,verura 
et  animam  ita  urgere,  et  in  angustum  coarctare  novit. 
ut  in  raomento  quoque  illi  excedendum  sit." — Lu- 
THERUS,  De  Missa  Privata. 

Note  42,  page  31,  col.  2. 
And  can  you  shrink  ?  etc. 
The  same  language  had  been  addressed  to  Isabel 
la. — F.  Columbus,  c.  15. 

Note  43,  page  31,  col.  2. 
Oh  had  I  perish'd,  when  my  failing  frame. 
His  miraculous  escape,  in  early  Ufe,  during  a  sea- 
fight  off  the  coast  of  Portugal. — ^Ibid.  c.  5. 

Note  44,  page  31,  col.  2. 

The  scorn  of  Folly,  and  of  Fraud  the  prey. 

Nudo  nocchier,  promettitor  di  regni ! 
By  the  Genoese  and  the  Spaniards  he  was  regarded 
as  a  man  resolved  on  "  a  wild  dedication  of  himself 
to  unpathed  waters,  imdreamed  shores ;"  and  the 
court  of  Portugal  endeavored  to  rob  him  of  the  glory 
of  his  enterprise,  by  secretly  dispatching  a  vessel  in 
the  course  which  he  had  pointed  out.  "Lorsqu'il 
avait  promis  un  nouvel  hemisphere,"  saj'S  Voltaire, 
"  on  lui  avait  soutenu  que  cet  hemisphere  ne  pouvoit 
exister;  et  quand  il  I'eut  decouvert,  on  pretendit  qu'il 
avait  ete  connu  depuis  long-temps." 

Note  45,  page  31,  col.  2. 

He  spoke  not  uninspired. 

He  used  to  affirm,  that  he  stood  in  need  of  God's 
particular  assistance ;  like  Moses  when  he  led  forth 
the  people  of  Israel,  who  forbore  to  lay  \-iolent  hands 
upon  him,  because  of  the  miracles  which  God  wrought 
by  his  means.  "So,"  said  the  Admiral,  "did  it  hap- 
pen to  me  on  that  voyage." — F.  Columbus,  c.  19. 

"And  so  easily,"  says  a  Commentator,  "are  the  work- 
ings of  the  Evil  One  overcome  by  the  power  of  God !" 

Note  4G,  page  31,  col.  2. 
"In  his  own  shape  shall  Death  receive  you  there." 
This  denunciation,  fulfilled  as  it  appears  to  be  in 
the  eleventh  canto,  may  remind  the  reader  of  the 
Harpies  in  Virgil. — ^n.  Ill,  v.  247. 

Note  47,  page  31,  col.  2- 

Rose  to  the  Virgin. 

Salve,  regina.  Herrera,  I,  i,  12. — It  Avas  tlie  usual 
ser\-ice,  and  always  sung  Avith  great  solemnity.  "  I 
remember  one  evening,"  says  Oviedo,  "  when  the  ship 
was  in  full  sail,  and  all  the  men  were  on  their  knees, 
singing  Salve,  regina,"  etc.  Relacion  Sommai-ia.—  ■ 
The  hynm,  O  Sanctissima,  is  stiU  to  be  heard  after 


1  — magnum  si  pectore  possit 
Excussisse  deura 


45 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


sunset  along  the  shores  of  Sicily,  and  i.ts  effect  may 
be  better  conceived  than  described.  See  Brydoxe,  I, 
330. 

Note  48,  page  31,  col.  2. 
Chosen  of  Menl% 
I  believe  that  he  was  chosen  for  this  great  service ; 
and  that,  because  he  was  to  be  so  truly  an  apostle,  as 
in  effect  he  proved  to  be,  therefore  was  his  origin  ob- 
scure ;  that  therein  he  might  resemble  those  who 
were  called  to  make  known  tlie  name  of  the  Lord 
from  seas  and  rivers,  and  not  from  courts  and  palaces. 
And  I  believe  also,  that,  as  in  most  of  his  doings  he 
was  guarded  by  some  special  providence,  his  very 
name  was  not  without  some  mystery :  fjr  in  it  is  ex- 
pressed the  wonder  he  performed ;  inasmuch  as  he 
conveyed  to  a  new  \\orld  the  grace  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  etc. — F.  Columbus,  c.  1. 

Note  49,  page  31,  col.  2. 
First  from  the  prow  to  hail  the  glimniering  hght. 
A  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  signifying  the 
spiritual  light  that  he  came  to  spread  there. — F.  CO' 
LUMBUs,  c.  22.  Hek-rera,  I,  i,  12. 

Note  50,  page  32,  col.  1. 

Pedro  !  Rodrigo  I 

Pedro  Gutierrez,  a  Page  of  the  King's  Chamber 
Rodrigo  Sanchez  of  Segovia,  Comptroller  of  the  Fleet 

Note  51,  page  32,  col.  1. 
Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross. 

Signifying  to  the  Infernal  powers  (all'  infierno  todo) 
the  will  of  the  Most  High,  that  they  should  renounce 
a  world  over  which  they  had  tyrannized  for  so  many 
ages. — OvALLE,  iv,*5. 

Note  52,  page  32,  col.  1. 

But  what  a  scene  was  there '. 
"  This  country  excels  all  others,  as  far  as  the  day 
surpasses  the  night  in  splendor. — Nor  is  tliere  a  better 
people  in  the  world.  They  love  their  neighbor  as 
themselves ;  their  conversation  is  the  sweetest  imagin- 
able, their  faces  always  smiling :  and  so  gentle,  so 
affectionate  are  the}^  that  I  swear  to  your  Highnesses," 
etc. — F.  Columbus,  c  30,  33. 

Note  53,  page  32,  col.  1 

JVymphs  of  romance,  etc. 

Dryades  formosissimas,  aut  nativas  fontium  nym- 
phas  de  quibus  fabulatur  antiquitas,  se  vidisse  arbi- 
trati  sunt. — P.  Martyr,  dec.  i,  lib.  v. 

And  an  eminent  Painter  of  the  present  day,  when 
he  first  saw  the  Apollo  of  the  Belvidere,  was  struck 
with  its  resemblance  to  an  American  warrior. — 
West's  Discourse  in  the  Royal  Academy,  1794. 

Note  54,  page  32,  col.  1. 

And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state  ! 

"  The  Cacique  came  dowxi  to  the  shore  in  a  sort 

of  palanquin — attended  by  his  ancient  men. — The 

gifts,  which  he  received  from  me,  were  afterwards 

carried  before  him." — F.  Columbus,  c.  32. 

Note  55,  page  32,  col.  1. 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
The  ring  of  Gyges,  the  lamp  of  Aladdin,  and  the 
borse  of  the  Tartar  king. 


Note  5G,  page  32,  col.  1. 
What  lung-drawn  tube,  etc. 
For  the  effects  of  the  telescope,  and  the  mirror,  on 
an  uncultivated  mind,  see  Wallis's  Voyage  round 
the  World,  c  2  and  6. 

Note  57,  page  32,  col.  2. 
Through  citron-groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize. 
-^tas  est  illis  aurea.  Apertis  vivunt  horlis.  P. Mar 
TYR,  dec.  i,  3. 

Note  58,  page  32,  col.  2. 

Ceiba. 

The  wild  cotton-tree,  often  menti(»ned  in  History 

"Cortes,"  says  Bernal  Diaz,  "  took  possession  of  the 

country  in  the  following  manner.  Drawing  his  sword, 

he  gave  three  cuts  with  it  into  a  great  Ceiba,  and     ' 

said " 

Note  59,  page  32,  col.  2. 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  ! 
The  Parrot,  as  described  by  Aristotle. — Hist.  Ani- 
mal, viii,  12. 

Note  60,  page  32,  col.  2. 
Half  bird,  half  fly. 
Here  are  birds  so  small,  says  Herrera,  that  though 
they  are  birds,  they  are  taken  for  bees  or  butterflies. 

Note  61,  page  32,  col.  2. 

the  fairy  king  of  flowers. 

The  Humming-bird.  Kakopit  (florum  regulus)  is 
the  name  of  an  Indian  bird,  referred  to  this  class  by 
Seba. 

Note  62,  page  32,  col.  2. 
Reigns  there,  and  revels,  etc. 
There  also  was  heard  tlie  wild  cry  of  the  Flamingo 

What  clarion  winds  along  the  yellow  sands  1 
Far  in  the  deep  the  giant-fisher  stands, 
Folding  his  wings  of  flame. 

Note  63,  page  32,  col.  2. 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 
II  serf  apres  sa  mort  a  parer  les  jeunes  Indiennes, 
qui  portent  en  pendans  d'oreilles  deux  de  ces  char- 
mans  oiseaux. — Buffon. 

Note  64,  page  32,  col.  2. 

'Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold ! 
According  to  an  ancient  tradition.  See  Oviedo 
Vega,  Herrera,  etc.  Not  many  years  afterwards  a 
Spaniard  of  distinction  wandered  everj'W'here  in 
search  of  it :  and  no  wonder,  as  Robertson  observes, 
when  Columbus  himself  could  imagine  that  he  had 
found  the  seat  of  Paradise. 

Note  65,  page  33,  col.  1. 

And  guavas  blush'd  as  in  the  vales  of  light. 
They  believed  that  the  souls  of  good  men  were 
conveyed  to  a  pleasant  valley,  abounding  in  guavas 
and  other  delicious  fruits. — Herrera,  I,  iii,  3.  F.  Co- 
LU3IBUS,  c.  62. 

Note  66,  page  33,  col.  1. 

There  silent  sate  many  an  unbidden  Guest. 

"  The  dead  walk  abroad  in  the  night,  and  feast 

with  the  living"  (F.  Columbus,  c.  62) ;  and  "  eat  of 

the  fruit  called  Guannaba." — P.  Martyr,  dec.  i,  9. 

Note  67,  page  33,  col.  1. 
And  sires,  alas,  their  sons  in  battle  slain  I 
War  reverses  the  order  of  nature.  In  time  of  peace,      i 

46  I 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  COLUMBUS. 


39 


says  Herodotus,  the  children  bury  their  fathers ; 
time  of  war  the  fathers  bury  their  children !  But  tlie 
Gods  have  willed  it  so. — I,  87. 

Note  68,  page  33,  col.  1. 

Cazziva. 

An  ancient  Cacique,  in  his  life-time  and  after  liis 
death,  employed  by  the  Zemi  to  alarm  his  people. — 
See  F.  Columbus,  c.  62. 

Note  69,  page  33,  col.  1. 
Unseen,  unheard  ! — Hence,  Minister  of  111. 
The  Author  is  spealdng  in  his  inspired  character. 
Hidden  things  are  revealed  to  him,  and  placed  before 
his  mind  as  if  they  were  present. 

Note  70,  page  33,  col.  1. 

too  soon  shall  they  fulfil. 

Nor  could  they,  (the  Powers  of  Darkness)  have 
more  effectually  prevented  the  progress  of  the  Faith, 
than  by  desolating  the  l<iew  World  ;  by  burjdng  na- 
tions alive  in  mines,  or  consigning  them  in  all  their 
errors  to  the  sword. — Relacion  de  B.  de  Las  Casas. 

Note  7L  page  33,  col.  1. 
When  forth  they  rush  as  with  the  torrent's  sweep. 
Not  man  alone,  but  many  other  animals,  became 
extinct  there. 

Note  72,  page  33,  col.  2. 
Who  among  us  a  life  of  sorrow  spent. 
For  a  summary  of  his  life  and  character,  see  "  An 
Account  of  the  European  Settlements." — P.  I,  c.  8. 

Note  73,  page  33,  col.  2. 
Signs  like  the  ethereal  bow — that  shall  endure. 
It  is  remarkable  that  these  phenomena  still  remain 
among  the  mysteries  of  nature. 

Note  74,  page  33,  col.  2. 
He  stood,  and  thus  his  secret  soul  address'd. 
Te  tua  fata  docebo.        Virg. 
Saprai  di  tua  vita  11  viaggio.       Dante. 

Note  75,  page  33,  col.  2. 
And  dash  the  floods  of  ocean  to  the  stars. 
When  he  entered  the  Tagus,  all  the  seamen  ran 
from  all  parts  to  behold,  as  it  were  some  wonder,  a 
ship  that  had  escaped  so  terrible  a  storm. — F.  Colum- 
bus, c.  40. 

Note  76,  page  33,  col.  2. 
And  Thee  restore  thy  Secret  to  the  Deep. 
I  wrote  on  a  parchment  that  I  had  discovered  what 
I  had  promised ; — and,  having  put  it  into  a  cask,  I 
threw  it  into  the  sea. — Ibid,  c,  37. 

Note  77,  page  33,  col.  2. 
To  other  eyes,  from  distant  cliff  descried. 
Balboa  immediately  concluded  it  to  be  the  ocean 
for  which  Columbus  had  searched  in  vain ;  and  when, 
at  length,  after  a  toilsome  march  among  the  moun- 
tains, his  guides  pointed  out  to  him  the  summit  from 
which  it  might  be  seen,  he  commanded  his  men  to 
halt,  and  went  up  alone. — Herrera,  I,  x,  1. 

Note  78,  page  33,  col.  2. 
Hung  in  thy  chamber,  buried  in  thy  grave. 
I  always  saw  them  in  his  room,  and  he  ordered 
them  to  be  buried  with  his  body. — F.  Columbus,  c.  86. 


Note  79,  page  33,  col.  2. 

Thy  reverend  form. 
His  person,  says  Herrera,  had  an  air  of  grandeur 
His  hair,  from  many  hardships,  had  long  been  grey. 
In  him  you  saw  a  man  of  an  unconquerable  courage, 
and  high  thoughts  :  patient  of  wrongs,  calm  in  adver- 
sity, ever  ti'usting  in  God : — and,  had  he  lived  in  an- 
cient times,  statues  and  temples  would  have  been 
erected  to  him  wthout  number,  and  his  name  would 
have  been  placed  among  the  stars. 

Note  80,  page  34,  col.  1. 

Ey  dogs  of  carnage. 

One  of  these,  on  account  of  his  extraordinary  saga- 
city and  fierceness,  received  the  full  allowance  of  a 
soldier.     His  name  was  Bezerillo. 

Note  81,  page  34,  col.  1. 
Swept — till  the  voyager,  in  the  desert  air. 
With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  kingdoms  as  full  of  peo- 
ple, as  hives  are  full  of  bees ;   and  now  where  aro 
they  { — Las  Casas. 

Note  82,  page  34,  col.  1. 
Starts  back  to  hear  his  alter'd  accents  there. 
No  unusual  effect  of  an  exuberant  vegetation.— 
"  The  air  was  so  vitiated,"  says  an  African  traveller, 
"  that  our  torches  burnt  dim,  and  seemed  ready  to  be 
extinguished ;  and  even  the  human  voice  lost  its  natu 
ral  tone." 

Note  83,  page  34,  col.  1. 
Here,  in  His  train,  shall  arts  and  arms  attend. 
"  There  are  those  alive,"  said  an  illustrious  orator, 
"  whose  memory  might  touch  the  two  extremities. 
Lord  Bathursi,  in  1704,  was  of  an  age  to  comprehend 
such  things — and,  if  his  angel  had  then  drawn  up  the 
curtain,  and,  whilst  he  was  gazing  with  admiration, 
had  pointed  out  to  him  a  speck,  and  had  told  him, 
'  Young  rnan,  there  is  America — which,  at  this  day, 
serves  for  little  more  than  to  amuse  you  with  stories 
of  savage  men  and  uncouth  manners ;  yet  shall,  be- 
fore you  taste  of  death,'  etc." — Burke  in  1775. 
Note  84,  page  34,  col.  1. 
Assembling  here,  etc. 
How^  simple  were  the  manners  of  the  early  colo- 
nists !  The  first  ripening  of  any  European  fruit  w^aa 
distinguished  by  a  family-festival.  Garcilasso  de  la 
Vega  relates  how  his  dear  father,  the  valorous  An- 
dres, collected  together  in  his  chamber  seven  or  eight 
gentlemen  to  share  with  him  three  asparaguses, 
the  first  that  ever  grew  on  the  table-land  of  Cusco. 
When  the  operation  of  dressing  them  was  over  (and 
it  is  minutely  described)  he  distributed  the  iwo 
largest  among  his  friends  ;  begging  that  the  company 
would  not  take  it  ill,  if  he  reserved  the  third  for  him 
self,  as  it  was  a  thins'  from  Spain. 

North  America  became  instantly  an  asylum  for  the 
oppressed ;  Huguenots,  and  Catholics,  and  sects  of 
every  name  and  country.  Such  were  the  first  settlers 
in  Carolina  and  Maryland,  Pennsylvania  and  New 
England.  Nor  is  South  America  altogether  without 
a  claim  to  the  title.  Even  now,  while  I  am  writing, 
the  ancient  house  of  Braganza  is  on  its  passage  across 
the  Atlantic, 

Cum  sociis,  natoque,  Penatibus,  et  magnis  dis. 
Note  85,  page  34,  col.  1. 

[Jntouch'd,  shall  drop  the  fetters  from  the  slave. 
Je  me  transporte  qtielquefois  au-dela  d'un  siecle. 
J'y  vols  le  bonheur  a  cote  de  I'industrie,  la  douce 

47 


40 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


tolerance  remplacant  la  farouche  inquisition ;  j'y  vois, 
unjour  de  fete,  Peruviens,  Mexicains,  Americains 
libres,  Francois  s'embrassant  commedes  freres,  et  ben- 
issant  le  regne  de  la  liberte,  qui  doit  amener  partout 
une  harmonie  universelle. — Mais  les  mines,  les  es- 
claves,  que  deviendront-ils  ?  Les  mines  se  fermeront, 
les  esclaves  seront  les  freres  de  leurs  maitres. 

Brissot. 
There  is  a  prophetic  stanza,  written  a  century  ago 
by  Bp.  Berkeley,  which  I  must  quote,  though  I  shall 
suffer  by  the  comparison. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way. 

The  four  firSt  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day. 

Time's  noblest  otfspring  is  the  last. 

Note  86,  page  .34,  col.  1. 
The  spoiler  spoil'd  of  all. 
Cortes.  "A  peine  put-ii  obtenir  audience  de  Charles- 
Quint;  un  jour  il  fendit  la  presse  qui  entotu-ait  la 
coche  de  I'empereur,  et  monta  sur  I'etrier  de  la  por- 
tiere. Charles  demanda  quel  etoit  cet  homme :  '  C'est,' 
repondit  Cortez,  'celui  qui  vous  a  donne  plus  d'etats 
que  vos  peres  ne  vous  ont  laisse  de  villes.'  "—Voltaire. 


Note  87,  page  34,  col.  1. 

the  slayer  slain. 

Cortes,  Pizarro. — "  x\lmost  all,"  says   Las  Casas, 
"  have  periL'hed.  TJie  innocent  blood,  \\  hich  they  had 
s'.ied,  cried  aloud  for  vengeance ;  the  sighs,  the  tears 
of  so  many  victims  went  up  before  God." 
Note  88,  page  34,  col.  1. 
']Mid  gems  and  gold,  unenvied  and  unblest. 
L'Espagne  a  fait  comme  ce  roi  insense  qui  demanda 
que  tout  ce  qu"il  toucheroit  se  convertit  en  or,  et  qui 
fut  oblige  de  revenir  aux  dieux  pour  les  prier  de  finir 
sa  misere. — MoxTEsauiEU. 

Note  89,  page  34,  col.  2. 
Where  on  his  altar-tomb,  etc. 
An  interpolation. 

Note  90,  page  34,  col.  2. 
Though  in  the  western  world  His  grave. 
An  anachronism.  The  body  of  Columbus  was  not 
yet  removed  from  Seville. 

It  is  almost  tmnecessary  to  point  out  another,  in 
the  Ninth  Canto.  The  telescope  was  not  then  in  use ; 
though  described  long  before  with  great  accuracy  by 
Roger  Bacon. 


A    POEM. 


PREFACE. 


A  FEW  copies  of  this  Poem  were  printed  off  in  the 
autumn  of  the  year  before  last,  while  the  Author  was 
abroad.  It  is  now  corrected,  and  republished  with 
some  additions. 

Wliatever  may  be  its  success,  it  has  led  him  in 
many  an  after-dream  through  a  beautiful  country; 
and  may  not  perhaps  be  uninteresting  to  those  who 
have  learnt  to  li\  e  in  past  times  as  well  as  present, 
and  whose  minds  are  familiar  with  the  events  and 
the  people  that  have  rendered  Italy  so  illustrious. 

The  stories,  taken  from  the  old  Chroniclers,  are 
given  without  exaggeration ;  and  are,  he  believes,  as 
true  to  the  original  text  as  any  uf  the  Plays  that  may 
be  said  to  form  oiu-  popular  history. 
May  1st,  1823. 


PART  L 


THE  LAKE  OF  GE:^VA. 

Day  glimmer'd  in  the  ea.st,  and  the  white  Moon 
Hung  like  a  vapor  in  the  cloudless  sky. 
Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went. 
Glad  to  be  gone — a  pilgrim  from  the  north, 
Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer.     Ere  the  artisan, 
Drowsy,  half-clad,  had  from  his  \\-indow  leant, 


With  folded  arms  and  listless  look  to  snuff 
The  morning  air,  or  the  caged  sky-lark  sung, 
From  his  green  sod  up-springing — but  in  vain, 
His  tuneful  bill  o'erflowing  with  a  song 
Old  in  the  days  of  Homer,  and  his  wings 
With  transport  quivering,  on  my  way  I  went, 
Thy  gates,  Geneva,  swinging  heavily. 
Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut; 
As  on  that  Sabbath-eve  when  he  arrived,'  (1) 
Wliose  name  is  now  thy  glory,  now  by  thee 
Inscribed  to  consecrate  (such  Airtue  dwells 
In  those  small  syllables)  the  narrow  street. 
His  birth-place — when,  but  one  short  step  too  late, 
He  sale  him  down  and  wept— wept  till  the  morning ;  (2j 
Then  rose  to  go — a  wanderer  through  the  world. 
'T  is  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it. 
Yet  at  a  Cit\'-gate,  from  time  to  time, 
Much  might  be  learnt ;  and  most  of  all  at  thine 
London — thy  hive  the  busiest,  greatest,  still 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by, 
And  note  who  passes.    Here  comes  one,  a  Youth, 
Glowing  with  pride,  the  pride  of  conscious  power, 
A  Chattcrton — in  thought  admired,  caress'd, 
And  crown'd  hke  Petrarch  in  the  Capitol ; 
Ere  long  to  die — to  fall  by  his  own  hand. 
And  fester  with  the  vilest.    Here  come  two, 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted — soon  to  part, 
A  Garrick  and  a  Johnson  ;  ^Vealth  and  Fame 
Awaiting  one — even  at  the  gate,  Neglect 
And  Want  the  other.    But  what  multitudes, 
Urged  by  the  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself. 


1  Rousseau. 


48 


ITALY. 


41 


Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare, 
Press  on — though  but  a  rill  entering  the  Sea, 
Entering  and  lost !  Our  task  would  never  end. 

Day  glimmer'd  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
Rufflmg  the  Leman  Lake.    Wave  after  wave. 
If  such  they  might  be  call'd,  dash"d  as  in  sport, 
Not  anger,  With  the  pebbles  on  the  beach 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sun-beam — where,  alone  and  as  entranced, 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line. 
Fishing  in  silence.    When  the  heart  is  light 
With  hope,  all  pleases,  nothing  comes  amiss  ; 
And  soon,  a  passage-boat  sw^ept  gaily  by. 
Laden  with  peasant-girls  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 
For  Vevay's  market-place — a  motley  group 
Seen  tln-ough  the  silvery  haze.  But  soon  't  was  gone 
The  shifting  sail  flapp'd  idly  for  an  insiant. 
Then  bore  them  off. 

I  am  not  one  of  those 
So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world, 
So  wondrously  profound — as  to  move  on 
In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  like  him  of  old  (3) 
(His  name  is  justly  in  the  Calendar) 
Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty,  (4) 
And,  when  at  eve  his  fellow-pilgrims  sate. 
Discoursing  of  the  lake,  ask'd  where  it  was. 
They  marvell'd,  as  they  might;  and  so  must  all, 
Seeing  what  now  I  saw  ;  for  now  't  was  day. 
And  the  bright  Sun  was  in  the  firmament, 
A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 
Chequering  the  clear  expanse.    Awhile  his  orb 
Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  Mont  Blanc, 
Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built  promontories. 
That  change  their  shapes  for  ever  as  in  sport  ; 
Then  travell'd  onward,  and  went  down  behind 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  Jura,  hghting  up 
The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  his  axe 
Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 
And,  in  some  deep  and  melancholy  glen, 
That  dungeon-fortress  never  to  be  named. 
Where,  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils, 
Toussaint  breathed  out  his  brave  and  generous  spirit. 
Ah,  little  did  He  think,  who  sent  him  there, 
^  That  he  himself,  then  greatest  among  men. 
Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  convey'd 
Across  the  ocean — to  a  rock  so  small 
Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves. 
That  ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  retum'd. 
Saying  it  was  not ! 

Still  along  the  shore. 
Among  the  trees  I  went  for  many  a  mile. 
Where  damsels  sit  and  weave  their  fishing-nets. 
Singing  some  national  song  by  the  way-side. 
But  now^  't  was  dusk,  and  journeying  by  the  Rhone, 
That  there  came  do\Mi,  a  torrent  from  the  Alps, 
I  enter 'd  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom,' 
The  mountains  closing,  and  the  road,  the  river 
FilUng  the  narrow  pass.     There,  till  a  ray 
Glanced  through  my  lattice,  and  the  housebold-stir 
Wam'd  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 


1  St.  Maurice. 


A  stir  imusual  and  accompanied 

With  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments, 

And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  pleasure, 

Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite. 

And  nuptial  feast  attiring — there  I  slept. 

And  in  my  dreams  w  ander'd  once  more,  well-pleased 

But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks,  and  woods. 

And  waters ;  for,  methought,  I  was  with  those 

I  had  at  morn,  at  even,  wish'd  for  there. 

n. 

THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD. 

Night  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule. 
That  all  day  long  had  climb'd  among  the  clouds, 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  Heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopp'd,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard ; 
That  door  which  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knock'd,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  Spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch, 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me,  (5) 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb ; 
And  a  lay-brother  of  the  Hospital, 
Who,  as  we  toil'd  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear. 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand. 
While  I  alighted. 

Long  could  I  have  stood, 
With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 
That  House,  the  highest  in  the  Ancient  World, 
And  placed  there  for  the  noblest  purposes. 
'T  was  a  rude  pile  of  simplest  masonn'. 
With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses, 
Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  Time  and  Chance, 
Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 
Warr'd  on  for  ever  by  the  elements, 
And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago. 
By  violent  men — when  on  the  mountain- top 
The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict. 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church. 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity ;    • 
The  vesper-bell,  for  't  was  the  vesper-hour. 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work. 
Stop  for  an  instant — move  your  lips  in  prayer !" 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale, 
If  dale  it^might  be  call'd,  so  near  to  Heaven, 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leap'd  up. 
Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow ; 
A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky. 
On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.    'T  w-as  a  scene 
Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind. 
As  though  all  worldly  ties  w^ere  now  dissolved  ;- 
And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought. 
To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore 
Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood  half  in  shadow 
A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead, 
For  such  as,  having  w  ander'd  from  their  way, 
Had  perish'd  miserably      Side  by  side. 
Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company 
All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them ; 
Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 
In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 

49 


42 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Though  the  barr'd  windows,  barr'd  against  the  wolf, 
Are  always  open ! 

But  the  Bise  blew  cold ;  (G) 
And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 
I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 
At  their  long  board.    The  fare  indeed  was  such 
As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence, 
But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine ; 
And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  matron 
Serving  unseen  below ;  while  from  the  roof 
(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir;, 
A  lamp  hvmg  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 
Its  partial  light  on  Apostolic  heads. 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.    Theirs  Time  as  yet 
Had  changed  not.     Some  were  almost  in  the  prime ; 
Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.    Seen  as  I  saw  them. 
Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth-stone  in  an  hour 
Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile. 
As  children ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 
The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth  ; 
Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk 
Music ;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came, 
As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  roll'd  on  in  ocean-billows. 
When  on  his  face  the  experienced  traveller  fell, 
Sheltenng  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands, 
Then  all  was  changed  ;  and,  sallying  with  their  pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings.     "  Anselm,  higher  up. 
Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long. 
And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence 
Whose  can  it  be,  but  liis  who  never  err'd  ? 
Let  us  to  work !  there  is  no  time  to  lose  ! — 
But  who  descends  Mont  Velan  ?  'T  is  La  Croix. 
Away,  away!  if  not,  alas,  too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  \x>y, 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  liut  half  awaken'd,  • 
Askijig  to  sleep  again."     Such  their  discourse. 

Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me ; 
St.  Bruno's  once'  (7) — where,  when  the  winds  were 

hush'd. 
Nor  from  the  cataract  the  voice  came  up, 
You  might  have  heard  the  mole  work  underground. 
So  great  the  stillness  of  that  place ;  none  seen, 
Save  when  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  cross'd 
By  some  rude  bridge — or  one  at  midnight  toU'd 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth. 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable. 
All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 
Of  Silence.     Nor  is  that  sequester'd  spot. 
Once    called    "  Sweet  W^aters,"  now  "  The  Shadv 

Vale,"  2 
To  me  unknown ;  that  house  so  rich  of  old. 
So  courteous,  (8)  and  by  two,  that  pass'd  that  way,' 
Amply  requited  with  immortal  ver.?e, 
The  Poet's  payment. 

But,  among  them  all. 
None  can  with  this  compare,  the  dangerous  seat 
Of  generous,  active  Virtue.    What  thoxigh  Frost 
Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 
Thaw  not,  but  gather — there  is  that  within, 


1  The  Grande  Chartreuse. 

2  Vallombrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella. 

3  ATioato  and  jMilton. 


Which,  where   it  comes,   makes   Summer;  and  in 

thought. 
Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 
Their  garden-plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 
Is  but  some  scanty  lettuce,  to  (tbserve 
Those  from  the-  South  ascending,  every  step 
As  though  it  were  their  last — and  instantly 
Restored,  renew'd,  advancing  as  with  songs, 
Soon  as  they  see,  turning  a  lofty  crpg. 
That  plain,  that  modest  structure,  promising 
Bread  to  the  himgry,  (9)  to  the  w'eary  rest. 

IIL 
THE  DESCENT. 

My  mule  refresh'd — and,  let  the  truth  be  told. 
He  was  not  of  that  vile,  that  scurvy  race. 
From  sire  to  son  lovers  of  controversy, 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot. 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  precipice. 
Snorting  suspicion  while  with  sight,  smell,  touch, 
Examining  the  wet  and  spongy  moss. 
And  on  his  haunches  sitting  to  slide  down 
The  steep,  the  smooth — my  mule  refresh'd,  his  behs 
Gingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart. 
And  we  set  out  in  the  grey  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly — by  waterfalls 
Fast-frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  mid-way. 
At  length,  uncheck'd,  unbidden,  he  stood  still  ; 
x\nfl  all  his  bells  were  muffled.    Then  my  Guide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  address'd  me:   "Through  this 

Chasm 
On  and  say  nothing — for  a  word,  a  breath. 
Stirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow — enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defiled 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Marengo. 
Well  I  remember  how  I  met  them  here. 
As  the  light  died  away,  and  how  Napoleon, 
Wrapt  in  his  cloak — I  could  not  be  deceived — 
Rein'd  in  his  horse,  and  ask'd  me,  as  I  pass'd. 
How  far  't  was  to  St.  Remi.    Where  the  rock 
Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  away. 
Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  its  base, 
'T  was  there ;  and  down  along  the  brink  he  led 
To  ^'^ictory! — Dessaix,  who  turn'd  the  scale,  (10) 
Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field 
(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may  discern  the  spot 
In  the  blue  haze),  sleeps,  as  you  saw  at  dawn, 
Just  as  you  enter'd,  in  the  Hospital-church." 
So  saying,  fjr  awhile  he  held  his  peace, 
Awe-struck  beneath  that  dreadful  Canopy  ; 
But  soon,  the  danger  pass'd,  launch'd  forth  again 

IV. 

JORASSE. 
JoRAssE  was  in  his  three-and-tAvenlieth  year ; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused ; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech. 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.     He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  Hunters  of  the  Higher  Alps  ; 
Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtfulness, 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies. 
Said  to  arise  by  those  who  dwell  below. 
From  frequent  dealings  with  the  Mountain-Spirits. 
But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 

50 


ITALY. 


43 


And  now  he  number'  1,  marching  by  my  side, 

The  Savans,  Princes,  who  with  him  had  cross  d 

The  frozen  tract,  with  him  famiharly 

Through  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  conversed 

In  many  a  chalet  round  the  Peak  of  Terror,' 

Round  Tacul,  Tour,  Well-horn  and  Rosenlau, 

Aud  Her,  whose  throne  is  inaccessible,  - 

Who  sits,  withdrawn,  in  virgin-majesty, 

Nor  oft  unveils.     Anon  an  Avalanche 

Roll'd  its  long  thunder ;  and  a  sudden  crash, 

Sharp  and  metalhc,  to  the  startled  ear 

Told  that  far-down  a  conrinent  of  Ice 

Had  bui-st  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun , 

And  with  what  transport  he  recall'd  the  hour 

When  to  deserve,  to  win  his  blooming  bride, 

Madelaine  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  boLmd 

The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 

The  Upper  realms  of  Frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 

Let  halfway  down,  enter'd  a  Grot  star-bright, 

And  gather'd  from  above,  below,  aroimd,  (11) 

The  pointed  crystals! 

Once,  nor  long  before  (12) 
(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet. 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  Nature  gives 
To  all  her  children — breaking  otf  by  starts 
Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  Mule 
Drew  his  displeasure)  once,  nor  long  before. 
Alone  at  day-break  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  slipp'd,  he  fell ;  and,  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Ghduig  from  ledge  to  ledge,  from  deep  to  deeper, 
Went  to  the  Under- world!  Long- while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed — then  waked  like  one 
Wishmg  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  for  ever ! 
For,  looking  romid,  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  Cavern, 
Winding  beneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice  ; 
With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  show 'd  the  stars ! 
What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers. 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men, 
Lost  like  himself?    Yet  must  he  wander  on. 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round  ; 
When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  River 
Working  its  way  to  light !    Back  he  withdrew, 
But  soon  retm-n'd,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 
Dash'd  down  the  dismal  Channel ;  and  all  day. 
If  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 
Travell'd  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 
Just  over-head,  and  the  impetuous  waves. 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strength 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  the  water  slept 
In  a  dead  lake — at  the  third  step  he  took. 
Unfathomable — and  the  roof,  that  long 
Had  threaten'd,  suddenly  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood. 
His  journev  ended  ;  when  il  ray  divine 
Shot  through  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to  Her 
Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
He  plunged,  he  swam — and  in  an  instant  rose, 
The  barrier  past,  in  light,  in  sunshine !    Through 
A  smiling  valley,  full  of  cottages. 
Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  ('t  was  a  festival-day) 


1  The  Schrekhorn. 


The  Jupg-frau. 


All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all,  and,  varying,  as  he  spoke, 
With  hope,  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy, 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close. 
When  his  dark  eyes  tlash'd  fire,  and,  stopping  short. 
He  listen 'd  and  look"d  up.     I  look'd  up  loo ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  liiss  that  through  me  thrill'd' 
'T  was  heard  no  more.     A  Chamois  on  the  cliff 
Had  roused  his  fellows  with  that  ciy  of  fear. 
And  all  ^vere  gone. 

But  now  the  thread  was  broken  , 
Love  and  its  joys  had  vanish"d  from  his  mind ; 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes 
When  with  his  friend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay, 
(His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung. 
His  axe  to  hew  a  stair-case  in  the  ice) 
He  track'd  their  footsteps.     By  a  cloud  surprised, 
Upon  a  crag  among  the  precipices. 
Where  the  next  step  had  hurl'd  them  fifty  fathoms, 
Oft  had  they  stood,  lock'd  in  each  other's  arms, 
All  the  long  night  under  a  freezing  sky. 
Each  guarding  each  the  while  from  sleeping,  falling 
Oh,  't  was  a  sport  he  loved  dearer  than  life, 
And  only  would  v^  ith  hfe  itself  relinquish  ! 
"  My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilds. 
As  for  myself,"  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 
His  wallet  in  his  hand,  "  this  do  I  call 
My  winding-sheet — for  I  shall  have  no  other  I " 

And  he  spoke  tnith.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes, 
("T  was  on  a  glacier — half-way  up  to  Heaven) 
Taking  his  final  rest.     Long  did  liis  wife, 
Suckling  her  babe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
The  way  he  went  at  parting,  but  he  came  not! 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  lest  in  her  sleep 
(Such  their  belief)  he  should  appear  before  her, 
Frozen  and  ghastly  pale,  or  crush'd  and  bleeding, 
To  tell  her  where  he  lay,  and  supplicate 
For  the  last  rite  !    At  length  the  dismal  news 
Came  to  her  ears,  and  to  her  eyes  his  corse 

V. 

MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS. 

Now  the  grey  granite,  starting  through  the  snow, 
Discover'd  many  a  variegated  moss  ' 
That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 
Shadows  out  capes  and  islands  ;  and  ere  long 
Numberless  flowers,  such  as  disdain  to  live 
In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 
The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues. 
With  their  diminutive  leaves  cover'd  the  ground 
'T  was  then,  that,  turning  by  an  ancient  larch, 
Shiver'd  in  two,  yet  most  majestical 
With  its  long  level  branches,  we  observed 
A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 
Far  down  by  the  way-side — just  where  the  rock 
Is  riven  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 
Has  bridged  the  gulf,  a  wondrous  monument  (13; 


1  Lichen  Geographicus. 


51 


44 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 
Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen  not  heard. 
And  seen  as  motionless! 

Nearer  we  drew, 
And  't  was  a  w  oman  young  and  delicate, 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand 
In  deepest  thought.    Young  as  she  was,  she  wore 
The  matron-cap ;  and  from  her  shape  we  judged, 
As  w  ell  we  might,  that  it  would  not  be  long 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  look'd. 
Yet  cheerful ;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not  twice. 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  would  be  commg : 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  of  straw, 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  garnish'd  with  a  riband 
Glittering  with  gold,  but  ill  conceal'd  a  face 
JXot  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  journey 'd  slowly  on ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met, 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her. 

She  was  bom 
(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  tears) 
In  Val  d'Aosta  ;  and  an  Alpine  stream. 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  Dora,  turn'd  her  father's  mill. 
There  did  she  blossom  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  tov\Tisman  of  Martigny,  won  her  heart, 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief     Long  he  held  out, 
Unwilling  to  resign  her ;  and  at  length, 
When  the  third  summer  came,  they  stole  a  match 
And  fled.     The  act  was  sudden  ;  and  when  far 
Away,  her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then 
She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 
Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger ; 
And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 
Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burden'd  as  she  was, 
Cross'd  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask  forgiveness. 
And  hold  him  to  her  heart  beibre  he  died. 
Her  task  was  done.     She  had  fulfill'd  her  wish, 
And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 
A  frame  like  hers  had  suffer 'd  ;  but  her  love 
Was  strong  within  her ;  and  right  on  she  went, 
Fearing  no  ill.     INIay  all  good  Angels  guard  her ! 
And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may, 
"Visit  Martigny,  I  will  not  forget 
Thy  hospitable  roof,  Marguerite  de  Tours  ; 
Thy  sign  the  silver  swan.'     Heaven  prosper  Thee ! 

VI. 

THE  ALPS. 

Who  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds. 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  morning,  noon  and  night, 
Still  where  they  were,  stedfast,  imniovable  ; 
Who  first  beholds  the  Alps — that  mighty  chain 
Of  Mountains,  stretching  on  from  east  to  west. 
So  massive,  yet  so  shado\\y,  so  ethereal. 
As  to  belong  rather  to  Heaven  than  Earth — 
But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 
A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 
A  something  that  informs  him  't  is  a  moment 
Whence  he  may  date  henceforward  and  for  ever  ? 

To  me  they  seem'd  the  barriers  of  a  World, 
Saying,  Thus  far,  no  farther !  and  as  o'er 


1  La  Cygne. 


The  level  plain  I  travell'd  silently, 

Nearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 

My  wandering  thoughts  my  only  company, 

And  they  before  me  still,  oft  as  I  look'd, 

A  strange  delight,  mingled  with  fear,  came  o'er  me 

A  vvonder  as  at  things  I  had  not  heard  of  I 

Ofl  as  I  look'd,  I  felt  as  though  it  were 

For  the  first  time  ! 

Great  was  the  tumult  there. 
Deafening  the  din,  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  Rome 
Entered  their  fastnesses.    Tramphng  the  snow^s. 
The  war-horse  reared ;  and  the  tower'd  elephant 
Uptuni'd  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky. 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallovv'd  up  and  lost. 
He  and  his  rider. 

Now  the  scene  is  changed  j 
And  o'er  Mont  Cenis,  o'er  the  Simplon  winds 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar. 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link, 
In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides ; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appeai-s, 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  hira  who  journeys  up. 
As  though  it  were  another,  not  the  same, 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whither 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  v^here  it  will, 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in  ;  and  on  it  runs, 
Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 
Through  glens  lock'd  up  before. 

Not  such  my  path? 
Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  dehghi  (14) 
In  dizziness,  gazing  and  shuddering  on 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns ! 
Mine,  though  I  judge  but  from  my  ague-fits 
Over  the  Drance,  just  where  the  Abbot  fell,  (15) 
The  same  as  Hannibal's. 

But  now  't  is  past, 
That  turbulent  Chaos ;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness ! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream. 
And  lo  the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joj',  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  Italy. 


VII. 


COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  Larian  Lake 
Under  the  shore — though  not  to  visit  Pliny, 
To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane-tree  walk. 
Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window  : 
And,  to  deal  plainly,  (may  his  Shade  forgive  me !) 
Could  I  recall  the  agesjiast,  and  play 
The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 
My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  ?iis  Lake, 
Though  to  fare  worse,  or  Virgil  at  his  farm 
A  little  further  on  the  way  to  Mantua. 
But  such  things  cannot  be.     So  I  sit  still, 
And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail. 
His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like. 
Well-pleased  with  all  that  comes.    The  morning  air 
Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 
A  silvery  gleam :  and  now  the  purple  mists 

52 


ITALY. 


45 


Rise  like  a  curtain  ;  now  the  sun  looks  out, 
Filling,  o'erflowing  v.ith  his  glorious  light 
This  noble  amphitheatre  of  mountains ; 
And  now  appear  as  on  a  phosphor-sea 
Niunberless  barks,  from  Milan,  from  Pavia ; 
Some  saihng  up,  some  dowTi,  and  some  at  anchor, 
Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port-town 
Under  the  promontorj^ — its  tall  tower 
And  long  flat  roofs,  just  such  as  Poussin  drew. 
Caught  by  a  sun-beam  slanting  through  a  cloud ; 
A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life, 
And  doubled  by  reflection. 

^Vhat  dehght. 
After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild, 
To  hear  once  more  the  sounds  of  cheerful  labor ! 
— But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  are  they  not  ? 
Along  the  shores,  among  the  liills  't  is  now 
The  heyday  of  the  Vintage ;  all  abroad, 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex, 
Busy  in  gathering ;  all  among  the  \Tnes, 
Some  on  the  ladder,  and  some  underneath, 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wicker-work, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolic  laugh 
Come  through  the  leaves  ;  the  vines  in  light  festoons 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues, 
And  every  avenue  a  cover'd  walk. 
Hung  with  black  clusters.    'T  is  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Welt  into  tears — so  general  is  the  joy ! 
While  up  and  do\«i  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake, 
Wains  oxen-drawn,  and  pannier'd  mules  are  seen. 
Laden  with  grapes,  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  Filippo  IMori, 
One  of  those  courtesies  so  sweet,  so  rare ! 
When,  as  I  rambled  through  thy  vine3'ard-ground 
On  the  hill-side,  thou  sent'st  thy  litllo  son, 
Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  big  as  he. 
To  press  it  on  the  stranger. 

May  thy  vats 
O'erflow,  and  he,  thy  willing  gift-bearer. 
Live  to  become  ere-long  himself  a  giver  ; 
And  in  due  time,  when  thou  art  full  of  honor, 
Tlie  staff  of  thine  old  age  I 

In  a  strange  land 
Such  things,  however  trifling,  reach  the  heart, 
And  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home. 
And  in  their  place  grafting  Good- Will  to  All. 
At  least  I  found  it  so ;  nor  less  at  eve, 
WTien,  bidden  as  an  English  traveller 
('T  was  by  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  cross'd 
The  bay  of  Traraezzine),  right  readily 
I  tum'd  my  prow  and  follow'd,  landing  soon 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave ; 
\Vhere,  through  the  trellises  and  corridoi-s. 
Soft  music  came  as  from  i^mida's  palace. 
Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods,  the  waters  ; 
And  through  a  bright  pa\-ilion,  bright  as  day, 
Forms  such  as  hers  were  flitting,  lost  among 
Such  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by, 
Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  the  feasts 
Painted  by  Cagliari ;  (16)  where  the  world  danced 
Under  the  starry  sky,  while  I  look'd  on. 
Admiring,  Ustening,  quaffing  gramolata,  (17) 

E2 


And  reading,  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round, 
The  thousand  love-adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget — no,  never,  such  a  scene 
So  full  of  witchery !    Night  lingered  still, 
■\^^^en,  with  a  dying  breeze,  I  left  Bellaggio ; 
But  the  strain  follow'd  me ;  and  still  I  saw 
Tliy  smile,  Angelica ;  and  still  I  heard 
Thy  voice — once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 

VIII. 

BERGAMO. 

The  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  before. 
But  where  I  Imew  not.    It  mclined  to  sadness ; 
And,  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 
My  landlord's  little  daughter,  Barbara, 
Had  from  her  apron  just  roU'd  out  before  me. 
Figs  and  rock-melons — at  the  door  I  saw 
Two  boys  of  hvely  aspect.     Peasant-like 
They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskill'd; 
VV' ith  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 
Wuuiing  their  mazy  progress  to  my  heart 
In  that,  the  only  universal  language. 
But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 
A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 
A  ^^"ar  of  words,  and  waged  with  looks  and  gestures, 
Between  Trappanti  and  his  ancient  dame, 
Mona  Lucilia.     To  and  fro  it  went ; 
While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard, 
xlnd  Barbara's  among  them. 

When  't  was  done. 
Their  dark  eyes  flash'd  no  longer,  yet,  methought. 
In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  express'd 
More  than  enough  to  serve  theni.    Far  or  near. 
Few  let  them  pass  mmoticed ;  and  there  was  not 
A  mother  round  about  for  many  a  league, 
But  could  repeat  tlieir  story.    Twins  they  were. 
And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world ; 
Their  parents  lost  m  the  old  ferry-boat 
That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went  down 
Crossing  the  rough  Penacus.' 

May  they  live 
Blameless  and  happy — rich  they  cannot  be. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy,  (18) 
Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  Petrarch's  door. 
Crying  without,  "  Give  me  a  lay  to  sing !" 
And  soon  in  silk  (such  then  the  power  of  song) 
Retum'd  to  thank  him  ;  or  hke  him,  wayworn 
And  lost,  who,  by  the  foaming  Adige 
Descending  from  the  TjtoI,  as  night  fell, 
Knock'd  at  a  city-gate  near  the  hill-foot, 
The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone. 
An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 
Found  welcome — nightly  in  the  banner'd  hall 
Tuning  his  harp  to  tales  of  Chivalry 
Before  the  great  JNIastino,  (19)  and  his  guests. 
The  three-and-twenty,  by  some  adverse  fortune, 
By  war  or  treason  or  domestic  malice. 
Reft  of  their  kingly  crowns,  reft  of  their  all, 
And  hving  on-  liis  bounty. 

But  who  now 
Enters  the  chamber,  flourishing  a  scroll 
In  his  right  hand,  his  left  at  everj'  step 


1  Lago  di  Gaida. 


53 


.16 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once  a  hat 
Of  ceremony.     Gliding  on,  he  comes, 
SHpshod,  ungarterVl ;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy  and  threadbare,  though  renewed  in  patches 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  old  one. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
"  'T  is  my  necessity  I"  he  stops  and  speaks, 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinaerless  face. 

'  "  I  am  a  Poet,  Signor : — give  me  leave 
To  bid  you  welcome.  Though  you  slu'ink  from  notice, 
The  splendor  of  your  name  has  gone  before  you ; 
And  Italy  from  sea  to  sea  rejoices, 
As  well  indeed  she  may  !    But  I  transgress  : 
I  too  have  known  the  weight  of  praise,  and  ought 
To  spare  another." 

Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  on  my  table. 
And  bow'd  and  left  me ;  in  his  hollow  hand 
Receiving  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchino, 
Unconsciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 

My  om^elet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 
"  The  very  best  in  Bergamo !"  had  long 
Fled  from  all  eyes ;  or,  like  the  young  Gil  Bias 
De  Santillane,  I  had  perhaps  been  seen 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise. 

IX. 

ITALY. 

Am  I  in  Italy  ?    Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 
Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque  (20) 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself;  (21) 
And  not  a  flnger-post  by  the  road-side 
"To  Mantua" — "To  Ferrara" — but  excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  I  could  weep — for  thou  art  lying,  alas ! 
Low  m  the  dust ;  and  they  who  come,  admire  thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  Beaut)'. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  ensla^-e  thee ! 
— But  why  despair?  Twice  hast  thou  lived  already. 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world,  (22) 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven ;  and  shalt  again.    The  hour  shall  come, 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey. 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  aijd  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  follJ^     Even  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously, 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendor  like  the  day, 
That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth — the  light  of  genius,  \4rtue, 
Greatness  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 
Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedaemon,  were  themselves. 
Since  men  invoked  "By  Those  in  Marathon!" 
Awake  along  the  ^gean  ;  and  the  dead, 
ITiey  of  that  sacred  shore,  have  heard  the  call, 


And  through  the  raixlis,  from  wing  to  wing,  are  seen 
Moving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breatliing  deliberate  valor.     - 
r 

X. 

COLL'ALTO. 

In  this  neglected  mirror  (23)  (the  broad  frame 
Of  massive  silver  serves  to  testify 
That  many  a  noble  matron  of  the  house 
Has  sate  before  it)  once,  alas,  was  seen 
What  led  to  many  soitows.     From  that  time 
The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping-place  ; 
And  he,  who  cursed  another  in  his  heart, 
Said,  "Be  thy  dwelling  through  the  day,  the  night, 
Shunn'd  like  ColFalto."    'T  was  in  that  old  Castle, 
Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  grey  battlements 
Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
Hangs  in  the  Trevisan,  that  thus  the  Steward, 
Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  Time  had  left  him, 
Address'd  me,  as  we  enter'd  what  was  call'd 
'•  My  Lady's  Chamber."    On  the  walls,  the  chairs, 
Much  yet  remain'd  of  the  rich  tapestry; 
Much  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  Lancelot 
In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  forest 
The  toilet-table  was  of  massive  silver, 
Florentine  Art,  when  Florence  was  renown 'd ; 
A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements. 
Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and  flowers- 
And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage, 
Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship, 
That,  when  his  Mistress  bade  him,  would  vmfold 
(So  said  at  least  the  babbling  Dame,  Tradition) 
His  emerald-wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 
The  song  that  pleased  her.  While  I  stood  and  look'd, 
A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  West, 
The  Steward  went  on. 

"  She  had  ('t  is  now  long  smce) 
A  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Crjstina. 
Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too ; 
None  so  admired,  beloved.     They  had  grovm  up 
As  play-fellows ;  and  some  there  werej  who  said, 
Some  who  knew  much,  discoursing  of  Cristina, 
'  She  is  not  what  she  seems.'    When  unrequired. 
She  would  steal  forth ;  her  custom,  her  delight, 
To  wander  through  and  through  an  ancient  grove 
Self-planted  half-way  down,  losing  herself 
Like  one  in  love  with  sadness;  and  her  veil 
And  vesture  while,  seen  ever  in  that  place. 
Ever  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round, 
Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 
The  name  of  The  White  Lady.     But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  you. 

In  that  chair 
The  Countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sitting. 
Her  gentle  serving-maid,  the  fair  Cristina, 
Combing  her  golden  hair.;  and,  through  this  door 
The  Count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  call'd  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  Venice ; 
WTien  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed, 
('T  w  as  an  illusion  of  the  Evil  Spirit — 
Some  say  he  came  and  cross'd  it  at  the  instant) 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answer'd, 
That  turn'd  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.    That  night,  ere  yei  the  Moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 

54 


ITALY. 


47 


Baying  as  still  he  does  (oft  do  I  hear  him, 
An  hour  and  more  by  the  old  turret-clock), 
They  led  her  forth,  the  unhappy  lost  Cristina, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress — to  die. 

"  No  blood  was  spilt ;  no  instrument  of  death 
Lurk'd — or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  her  unblemish'd  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour.    Fresh  as  a  flower  ungather'd, 
And  warm  with  life,  her  youthful  pulses  playing, 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  Castle-wall.  (;24) 
The  wall  itself  was  hoUow'd  to  receive  her ; 
Tlien  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 
Would  you  descend  and  see  it  ? — 'T  is  far  down  ; 
And  many  a  stair  is  gone.   'T  is  in  a  vault 
Under  the  Chapel:  and  there  nightly  now, 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  w  hen  smooth  and  fair, 
And  as  though  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought  of, 
The  stone-work  rose  before  her,  till  the  hglit 
Glimmer'd  and  went — there,  nightly,  at  that  hour 
(You  smile,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale ! 
Would  we  could  say  so  I)  at  that  hour  she  stands 
Shuddering — her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Join'd  as  in  prayer ;  then,  like  a  Blessed  Soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods,  the  mountains.  Issuing  forth,  (25) 
The  htmter  meets  her  in  his  hunting  track ; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims 
;For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old) 
'T  is  the  AVhite  Lady' !" 

XI. 

VENICE. 

There  is  a  glorious  City  in  the  Sea. 
The  Sea-i^l^the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  aiiWo>ving  ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 
Lead  to  her  gates.    The  path  lies  o'er  the  Sea, 
Invisible ;  and  from  the  land  we  w  ent. 
As  to  a  floating  City — steering  in, 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream. 
So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a*<.lome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stalely  portico. 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky ; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  Eastern  splendor. 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant-lungs  ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shalter'd  them, 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art,  (26) 
As  though  the  wealth  witliin  them  had  run  o'er. 

Thither  I  came,  and  in  a  wondrous  Ark, 
(That,  long  before  w-e  slipt  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things) 
From  Padua,  where  the  stars  are,  night  by  night,' 
Waich'd  from  the  top  of  aaold  dungeon-tower. 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelin — (27) 
Not  as  he  watch'd  them,  when  he  read  his  flite 
And  shudder'd.   But  of  him  I  thoiight  not  then. 
Him  or  his  horoscope ;  far,  far  from  me 
The  forms  of  Guilt  and  Fear ;   though  some  were 

there, 
Sitting  among  ns  round  the  cabin-board, 
Some  who,  like  him,  had  cried,  "  Spill  blood  enough!" 
And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.  They  had  play'd 
Their  parts  at  Padua,  and  were  now^  returning 


A  vagrant  crew,  and  careless  of  to-morrow,  (28) 

Careless  and  full  of  mirth.    Who,  in  that  quaver. 

Sings  "  Caro,  Caro  ?" — 'T  is  the  Prima  Donna, 

And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face. 

Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "Brava!  Ancora?" 

'T  is  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 

Perch'd  on  her  shoulder.    But  mark  him  who  leaps 

Ashore,  and  with  a  shout  urges  along 

The  lagging  mules  ;  (29)  then  runs  and  climbs  a  tree 

That  with  its  branches  overhangs  the  stream, 

And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again. 

'T  is  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh ; 

That  cliild  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino.  (30) 

x\nd  mark  their  Poet — with  what  emphasis 

He  prompts  the  young  Soubrelte,  conning  her  part ! 

Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box. 

And  prompts  again ;  lor  ever  looking  round 

As  if  in  Search  of  subjects  for  his  wit, 

His  satire  ;  and  as4jften  whispering 

Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginable. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,  Crabbe  (when  thou  hast  done, — 
Late  may  it  be — it  will,  like  Prospero's  staff, 
Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth), 
I  would  portray  tlie  Italian — Now  I  cannot. 
Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 
Of  Love,  of  Hate,  for  ever  in  extremes ; 
Gentle  when  tmprovoked,  easily  won. 
But  quick  in  quarrel — through  a  thousand  shades 
His  spirit  flits,  chameleon-hke  ;  and  mocks 
The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on. 
At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  "Venezia!" 
And,  as  call'd  forth,  it  comes. 

A  few-  in  fear. 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was,' 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod, 
GaAO  birth  to  Venice.    Like  the  water-fowl. 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean-waves; 
And,  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew-  from  the  north,  the  soulh;  where  they  that 

came. 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalation,  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  Metropolis,  (31)  with  glittering  spires, 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorn'd  ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion. 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  whence  the  talisman,  by  which  she  rose, 
Towering  ?    'T  was  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  Enterprise ;  and,  far  or  near. 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian  I — now  in  Cairo; 
Ere  yet  the  Califa  came,  (32)  listening  to  hear 
Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red-Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Eiixine,  on  the  Sea  of  Azoph, 
!n  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Russ, 
The  Tartar ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the^guif  of  Ormus,  gems  from  Bagdad 
Eyes  brighter  \et,  that  shed  the  light  of  love. 
From  Georgia,  fi-om  Circassia.  Wandering  round. 
When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw,  displayed. 
Treasures  from  u.nknown  climes,  away  he  went, 
And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere-long 


1  Attila 


55 


48 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


J>om  the  well-head,  supplying  all  below  ; 
Making  the  Imperial  City  of  the  East, 
Herself,  his  tributary. 

If  we  turn 
To  the  black  forests  of  the  Rhine,  the  Danube, 
Where  o'er  each  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs, 
And,  like  the  wolf  that  hunger'd  at  his  door, 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine — there  we  meet, 
In  warlike  guise,  the  Caravan  from  Venice  ; 
When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  emerging, 
A  glittering  file,  the  trumpet  heard,  the  scout 
Sent  and  recall'd — but  at  a  city-gate 
All  gaiety,  and  look'd  for  ere  it  comes  ; 
Winning  its  way  with  all  that  can  attract, 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert, 
Jugglers,  stage-dancers.   Well  might  Charlemain, 
And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  \-isor  up, 
On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile. 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
The  Wonders  of  the  East !  Well  might  they  then 
Sigh  for  new  Conquests  ! 

Thus  did  Venice  rise, 
Thus  flourish,  till  the  iinwelcome  tidings  came, 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  Sun, 
Fragrant  with  spices — that  a  way  was  found. 
A  channel  open'd,  and  the  golden  stream 
Turn'd  to  enrich  another.   Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell, 
Fell  m  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed ; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
Of  the  Four  Kingdoms — who,  as  in  an  Ark, 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  Old  World  to  the  JXew, 
From  the  last  trace  of  ci-\-ilized  life — to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  unclouded  splendor. 

Though  many  an  age  in  the  mid-sea  She  dwelt, 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  Earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  pass'd,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.    What  are  these, 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?   O'er  the  globe  they  fling 
Their  moastrous  shadows ;  and,  while  yet  we  speak, 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream ! 
What — but   the    last   that   styled    themselves    the 

Cfesars  ? 
And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  come ; 
Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 
W^ear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume  ? 
Who — but  the  Caliphs  ?  follow'd  tiist  by  shapes 
As  new  and  strange — Emperor,  and  King,  and  Czar, 
And  Soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride. 
Trampling  on  all  the  flourishing  worlis  of  peace 
To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 
His  name  in  blood — some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad ; 
Others,  nor  long,  alas,  the  interval. 
In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 
W^ielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 
Mingled  with  darkness  ;  and,  among  the  rest, 
Lo,  one  by  one,  passing  continually. 
These  who  assume  a  sway  beyond  them  all ; 
Men  grey  v^ith  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown. 
And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  ke>s 
That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 
Lnlock  Heaven's  gate. 


XII. 
LUIGI. 

He  who  is  on  his  travels  and  loves  ease. 
Ease  and  companionship,  should  hire  a  youth, 
Such  as  thou  wert,  Luigi.    Thee  I  found. 
Playing  at  Mora  (33)  on  the  cabin-roof 
With  Pulcinella — crying,  as  in  wrath, 
"Tre!  Quattrol  Cinque!" — 'tis  a  game  to  strike 
Fire  from  the  coldest  heart.    What  then  from  thine 
And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved. 
Won  by  thy  looks.    Thou  wert  an  honest  lad ; 
Wert  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 
Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  and  pleasure. 
Thou  wouldst  have  number'd  in  thy  family 
At  least  six  Doges  and  twelve  Procurators.  (34) 
But  that  was  not  to  be.    In  thee  I  saw 
The  last  of  a  long  line  of  Carbonari, 
Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years. 
Had  lived  and  labor 'd,  cutting,  charring  wood ; 
Discovering  where  they  were,  to  those  astray, 
By  the  re-echoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 
Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travell'd  slowly  up 
Into  the  sky.    Thy  nobler  destinies 
Led  thee  away  to  justle  in  the  crowd  ; 
And  there  I  found  thee — by  thy  own  prescription 
Crossing  the  sea  to  try  once  more  a  change 
Of  air  and  diet,  landing  and  as  gaily. 
Near  the  Dogana — on  the  Great  Canal, 
As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and  sleep. 

First  didst  thou  practise  patience  in  Bologna, 
Serving  behind  a  Cardinal's  gouty  chair, 
Laughing  at  jests  that  were  no  laughing  matter ; 

Then  teach  the  Art  to  others  in  Ferrara 

— At  the  Three  Moors — as  Guide,  as  d^Jrone — 

Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 

Thy  scraps  of  knowledge — through  the  grassy  street 

Leading,  explaining — pointing  to  the  bars 

Of  Tasso's  dungeon,  and  the  Latin  verse. 

Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door 

Of  Ariosto. 

Many  a  year  is  gone 
Since  on  the  Rhin6  we  parted ;  yet,  methinks, 
I  can  recall  thee  to  the  life,  Luigi ; 
In  our  long  journey  ever  by  my  side. 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  o'er  apennine,  maremma  ; 
Thy  locks  jet-black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 
Open  as  day  and  full  of  manly  daring. 
Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came. 
Herdsman  or  pedlar,  monk  or  muleteer ; 
And  few  there  were,  that  met  thee  not  with  smiles. 
Mishap  pass'd  o'er  thee  like  a  summer-cloud. 
Cares  thou  hadst  none ;  and  they,  who  stood  to  hear 

thee. 
Caught  the  infection  and  forgot  their  own. 
Nature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 
Her  happiest — not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky ; 
And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirp'd,  Luigi, 
Thine  a  perpetual  voice — at  every  turn 
A  larum  to  the  echo.    In  a  clime. 
Where  all  the  world  v.as  gay,  thou  wert  the  gayest^, 
And,  like  a  babe,  hush'd  only  by  thy  slumbers. 
Up  hill  and  down,  morning  and  noon  and  night, 
Singing  or  talking ;  singmg  to  thyself 
When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  listener  talking. 

56 


ITALY. 


49 


xin. 

ST.  MARK'S  PLACE. 

Over  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless, 
Nothing  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
Passes,  save  now  and  then  a  cloud,  a  meteor, 
A  famish'd  eagle  ranging  for  his  prey  ; 
Wliile  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man. 
How  much  has  been  transacted !    Emperoi-s,  Popes, 
Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil. 
Landing,  have  here  perform'd  their  several  parts, 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  Inanimate  World, 
Tells  of  Past  Ages. 

In  that  temple-porch 
(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains),  (35) 
Did  Barbarossa  ihng  his  mantle  offj 
And,  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  Pontiff  (36) — thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight,  disguise,  and  many  an  aguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow.     In  that  temple-porch. 
Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year, 
And  blind — his  eyes  put  out — did  Dandolo 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  ducal  crown 
The  cross  just  then  assumed  at  the  high  altar. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible. 
Though  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many  tears, 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  wee])ing  much ; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts, 
"  Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest  I  " 
— There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armor  on, 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  stream'd  aloft, 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny. 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret. 
He  sail'd  away,  five  hundred  gallant  ships. 
Their  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazon'd  shields. 
Following  his  track  to  Glory.     He  returned  not ; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere-long, 
Snatch'd  from  destruction — the  four  steeds  divine. 
That  strike  the  ground,  resounding  with  their  feet,  (37) 
And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame     * 
Over  that  very  portal — in  the  place 
Where  in  an  after-time  Petrarch  was  seen 
Sitting  beside  the  Doge,  on  his  right  hand. 
Amid  the  ladies  of  the  court  of  Venice, 
Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  setting  sun 
By  many-color'd  hangings ;  while,  beneath. 
Knights  of  all  nations,  some  from  merry  England,  (3S) 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  came,  as  if  returning  to  console 
The  least,  instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  Doge, 
Himself,  go  round,  borne  through  the  gazing  crowd, 
Once  in  a  chair  of  state,  once  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  first  appearance,  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty, 
Changed  not  so  fast  for  many  and  many  an  age. 
As  this  small  spot.    To-day  't  was  full  of  maskers ; 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  ihe  Carnival,  (39) 


Tlie  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  mask'd  ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scafTold  and  the  heads-man ; 
And  he  died  there  by  torch-light,  bomid  and  gagg'cl. 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not.  Underneath 
Where  the  Archangel,  turrung  with  the  wind. 
Blesses  the  City  from  the  toprnost-tower, 
His  arras  extended — there  continually 
Two  phantom-shapes  were  sitting,  side  by  side. 
Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other  ; 
Horror  and  JMirlh.     Both  vanish'd  in  one  hour! 
But  Ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 
His  ancient  rule,  shall  wash  away  their  footsteps 

Enter  the  Palace  by  the  marble  stairs  ' 
Down  which  the  grizzly  head  of  old  Faliero 
Roll'd  from  tlie  block.  (40)  Pass  onward  through  tho 

Chamber, 
Where,  among  all  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes. 
But  one  is  wanting — where,  thrown  off  in  heat, 
A  short  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  yet  shorter ;  (41) 
And  thou  wilt  track  them — wilt  from  halls  of  state 
Where  kings  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  song 
Rung  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold, 
Step  into  darkness  ;  and  be  told,  "  'T  was  here, 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die, 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
Carrara  and  his  valiant  sons  were  strangled ; 

I  He  first — then  they,  whose  only  crime  had  been 
Straggling  to  save  their  Father. — Through  that  door 
So  soon  to  cr\',  smiting  his  brow,  "  I  'm  lost ! " 
Was  shown,  and  with  all  coui-tesy,  all  honor, 

I  The  great  and  noble  captain,  Carmagnola. — (42) 
That  deep  descent  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 
Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 
Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  came  never! 
Leads  to  a  cover'd  Bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot, 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  enter'd, 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span ; 
An  iron  door,  ui-ged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  life. — But  let  us  to  the  roof. 
And,  when  thou  hast  survey'd  the  sea,  the  land, 
Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there. 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs.    They  had  their  tenants. 
And  each  supplied  with  sufferings  of  his  owti. 
There  burning  suns  beat  unrelentingly. 
Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 
The  brain,  till  Reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 
And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side, 
Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery ! 
— Few  Houses  of  the  size  were  better  fill'd  ; 
Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 
"  Most  nights,"  so  said  the  good  old  Nicolo 
(For  thrce-and-thirty  years  his  uncle  kept 
The  water-gate  below,  but  seldom  spoke, 
Though  much  was  on  his  mind),  •'  most  nights  arrived 
The  prison-boat,  that  boat  with  many  oars, 
And  bore  aw"ay  as  to  the  Lower  World, 
Disburdening  in  the  Canal  Orfano,  (43) 
That  dro\\7aing-place,  where  never  net  was  throwT) 
Summer  or  Winter,  death  the  penalty  ; 
And  where  a  secret,  once  deposited, 
Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead." 


1  Scala  de'  Giganti. 


57 


50 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  what  so  gay  as  Venice  ?     Every  gale 
Breathed  heavenly  music !  and  who  flock'd  not  thither 
To  celebrate  her  Nuptials  with  the  Sea  ? 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,  Persian — night  and  day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  stand  still) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 
The  Enchantress  Pleasure  ;  realizing  di-eams 
The  earliest,  happiest — for  a  tale  to  catch         , 
Credulous  eai-s,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains, 
Had  only  to  begin,  "  There  lived  in  Venice  " — 

"  Who  were  the  Six  we  supp'd  with  yestemight?"(4i) 
"  Kings,  one  and  all !  Thou  couldst  not  but  remark 
The  st}ie  and  manner  of  the  Six  that  served  them." 

"  Who  answer'd  me  just  now  ?  (45)  Who,  when  I  said, 
'  'T  is  nine,'  turn'd  round  and  said  so  solemnly, 
*  Signor,  he  died  at  nine ! '  "-"  'T  was  the  Armenian  ; 
The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou  wilt." 

"  But  who  stands  there,  alone  among  them  all  ?"(46) 
"  The  Cypriot.     Ministers  from  foreign  courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  hour  of  rising  ; 
His  the  Great  Secret!    j\ot  the  golden  house 
Of  Neio,  or  those  fabled  in  the  East, 
As  wrought  by  magic,  half  so  rich  as  his ! 
Two  dogs,  coal-black,  in  collars  of  pure  gold. 
Walk  in  his  footsteps — Who  but  his  familiars  ? 
He  casts  no  shadow,  nor  is  seen  to  smile ! " 

Such  their  discourse.     Assembling  in  St.  Mark's, 
All  Nations  met  as  on  enchanted  gromid  ! 

"What  though  a  strange,  mysterious  Power  was  there. 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible, 
\nd  universal  as  the  air  they  breathed ; 
h.  Power  that  never  shnnber'd,  never  pardon'd, 
A.11  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everyv^here,  (47) 
Entering  the  closet  and  the  sanctuary, 
No  place  of  refuge  for  the  Doge  himself; 
Most  present  when  least  thought  of — nothing  dropt 
In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips. 
Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 
Observed  and  judged — a  Power,  that  if  but  glanced  at 
In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might. 
The  speaker  lower'd  at  once  his  eyes,  his  voice, 
And  pointed  upward,  as  to  God  in  Heaven — 
^Vhat  though  that  Power  was  there,  he  who  lived  thus. 
Pursuing  Pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not, 
But  let  him  in  the  midnight-air  indulge 
A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  Venice, 
^nd  in  that  hour  he  vanish'd  from  the  earth  I 


XIV. 

THE  GONDOLA. 

Boy,  call  the  Gondola  ;  the  sun  is  set. — 
I  came,  and  we  embark'd  ;  but  instantly, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  board  so  light  of  foot, 
6o  liglit  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  why, 
Sleep  overcame  her ;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  waked  her ;  but  the  boat 
Rork'd  her  to  sleep  again. 

The  moon  was  up, 


But  broken  by  a  cloud.     The  wind  was  hush'd, 
And  the  sea  mirror-like.     A  single  zephyr 
Play'd  with  her  tresses,  and  drew  more  and  more 
Her  veil  across  her  bosom. 

Long  I  lay 
Contemplating  that  face  so  beautiful. 
That  rosy  mouth,  that  cheek  dimpled  A\-ith  smiles, 
That  neck  but  half-concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 
'T  was  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  eaWy  age. 
I  look'd  and  look'd,  and  felt  a  flush  of  joy 
I  would  express,  but  cannot. 

Oft  I  vAish'd 
Gently — by  stealth — to  drop  asleep  myself) 
And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come  ; 
Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forgetfulness. 
'T  was  all  m  vain.     Love  would  not  let  me  rest. 

But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  waked ! 
When,  her  light  hair  adjusting,  and  her  veil 
So  rudely  scatter'd,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me  ;  and,  as  gaily  as  before, 
Sitting  unconsciously  nearer  and  nearer, 
Pour'd  out  her  innocent  mind ! 

So,  nor  lang  since, 
Sung  a  Venetian :  and  his  lay  of  love,  (48) 
Dangerous  and  sweet,  charm'd  Venice.    As  for  me 
(Less  fortunate,  if  Love  be  Happiness) 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
I  went  alone  under  the  silent  moon  ; 
Thy  place,  St.  Mark,  thy  churches,  palaces, 
Glittering,  and  frost-like,  and  as  day  drew  on, 
Meltmg  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

Those  porches  (49)  pass'd  through  which  the  water- 
breeze  ' 
Plays,  though  no  longer  on  the  noble  forms 
That  moved  there,  sable-vested — and  the  Quay, 
Silent,  grass-grown — adventurer-Uke  I  launch'd 
Into  the  deep,  ere-long  discovering 
Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  Southern  seas. 
All  verdure.     Everywhere,  from  bush  and  brake, 
The  musky  odor  of  the  serpents  came ; 
Their  slimy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 
Bright  in  the  moonshine  :  and,  as  round  I  went, 
Dreaming  of  Greece,  whither  the  waves  were  gliding. 
I  listen'd  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse ;  (50)  and,  if  right  I  guess'd. 
Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  Winds 
In  secret,  for  their  kindred  on  Mount  Ida. 

Nor  when  again  in  Venice,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
\Miere  nothing  comes  to  drown  the  human  voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  the  tide. 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  Jessica 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sate 
At  her  half-open  window.     Then,  melhought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Through  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud  hean 
Of  some  Priuli.     Once,  we  could  not  err, 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house. 
As  between  night  and  day  Ave  floated  by), 
A  Gondolier  lay  singing;  and  he  sung. 
As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself,  (51) 
Of  Tancred  and  Ermiiaia.     On  our  oars 


1  See  Note. 


58 


ITALY. 


51 


We  rested  ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine ! 
We  could  not  err — Perhaps  he  was  tlie  last — 
For  none  took  up  the  strain,  none  ansvver'd  him ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  he  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  Venice. 

The  moon  went  down ;  and  nothing  now  was  seen 
Save  here  and  there  the  lamp  of  a  Madonna, 
Glimmering — or  heard,  but  when  he  spoke,  who 

stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow%  and  cried, 
Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile. 
Some  school  or  hospital  of  old  renowTi, 
Though  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were  near, 
"  Hasten  or  slacken."  ' 

But  at  length  Night  fled  ; 
And  W'ith  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  Pleasure. 
Star  after  star  shot  by,  or,  meteor-like, 
Cross'd  me  and  vanish'd — lost  at  once  among 
Those  hundred  Isles  that  tow^er  majestically, 
That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water-mark, 
Not  with  rough  crag,  but  marble,  and  the  work 
Of  noblest  architects.   I  linger'd  still  ; 
Nor  struck  my  threshold,  till  the  hour  was  come 
And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  grey  light, 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door,  (52) 
That  door  so  often  with  a  trembling  hand, 
So  often — then  so  lately  left  ajar, 
Shut ;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity, 
Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  love, 
Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 

XV. 

t      THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE. 

It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve,  (53)  and  all  pour'd  forth 
As  to  some  grand  solemnity.   The  fisher 
Came  from  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 
His  wife  and  little  one ;  the  husbandman 
From  the  Firm  Land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 
Crowding  the  common  ferry.    All  arrived  ; 
And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turn'd  and  listen'd, 
So  great  the  stir  in  Venice.    Old  and  young 
Throng'd    her   three  hundred   bridges;    the  grave 

Turk, 
Turban'd,  long-vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 
In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine,  p 

Hurrying  along.    For,  as  the  custom  was, 
The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  State, 
They  of  Patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Book  of  Gold, 
Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 


At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming ; 
And  never  from  the  first  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendor  or  such  beauty.  (54)  Two  and  two 
(The  richest  tapestry  unroll'd  before  them). 
First  came  the  Brides  in  all  their  loveliness; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bride-maids  follow'd, 
Only  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contain'd 
rhe  dowry  and  the  presents.    On  she  moved, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  os  I  rich-feathers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer,  (55) 

J  Premi  o  sta. 


Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 

And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone, 

Ruby  or  diamond  or  dark  amethyst ; 

A  jewell'd  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath, 

Wreathing  her  gold  brocade. 

Before  the  Churcn. 
That  venerable  Pile  on  the  sea-brink,  (56) 
Another  train  they  met,  no  strangers  to  them, 
Brothers  to  some,  and  to  the  rest  still  dearer  ; 
Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  pliime,' 
And,  as  he  walk'd,  with  modest  dignity 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle,  his  tabarro. 

They  join,  they  enter  in,  and,  up  the  aisle 
Led  by  the  full-voiced  choir  in  bright  procession, 
Range  round  the  altar.    In  his  vestments  there 
The  Patriarch  stands;  and,  while  the  anthem  floAvs, 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved  ? — mothers  in  secret 
Rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  their  daughters. 
Sons  in  the  thought  of  making  them  their  own; 
And  they — array'd  in  youth  and  innocence, 
Their  beauty  heighten'd  by  their  hopes  and  fears. 

At  length  the  rite  is  ending.    All  fall  down 
In  earnest  prayer,  all  of  all  ranks  together ; 
And,  stretching  out  his  hands,  the  holy  man 
Proceeds  to  give  the  general  benediction ; 
When  hark,  a  din  of  voices  from  without, 
And  shrieks  and  groans  and  outcries  as  in  battle 
And  lo,  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent, 
And  armed  ruflians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 
Savage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  Barbarigo, 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel, 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold !    Statue-like, 
Awhile  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  multitude. 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike ; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell. 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again — amid  no  clash  of  «rms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are  they  now  ? — plowing  the  distant  waves 
Their  sails  all  set,  and  they  upon  the  deck 
Standing  triumphant.   To  the  east  they  go, 
Steering  for  Istria  ;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley),(57; 
Freighted  with  all  that  gives  to  life  its  value ! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them ! 


Now  might  you  see  the  matrons  running  wild 
Along  the  beach ;  the  men  half-ami'd  and  arming, 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear; 
One  with  an  axe  hewing  the  mooring-chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank, 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.    In  an  hour 
Half  Venice  was  afloat.    But  long  before, 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control, 
The  youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine. 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  Arsenal ; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood. 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

And  from  the  tower 
The  watchman  gives  the  signal.    In  the  East 
A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  Port ; 
Her  flag  St.  Mark's. — And  now  she  turns  the  poim.. 
Over  the  waters  like  a  sea-bird  flying ! 
Ha,  'tis  the  same,  'tis  theirs!  from  stem  to  prow 

59 


52 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hung  with  green  boughs,  she  comes,  she  comes,  re- 
storing 
All  that  was  lost. 

Coasting,  with  narrow  search, 
Friuli — like  a  tiger  in  liis  spring, 
They  had  surprised  the  Coi*sairs  where  they  lay 
Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  securitj'' 
And  casting  lots — had  slain  them,  one  and  all, 
All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 
Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element ; 
Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 
Had  hush'd  the  babes  of  Venice,  and  who  yet, 
Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retain'd 
The  fierceness  of  his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  Brides 
Lost  and  recover'd ;  and  what  now  remain'd 
But  to  give  thanks  ?  Twelve  breast-plates  and  twelve 

crowns. 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  the  votive  offerings 
Of  the  young  victors  to  their  Patron-Saint, 
Vow'd  on  the  field  of  battle,  were  ere-long 
Laid  at  his  feet ;  (53)  and  to  preserve  for  ever 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change, 
From  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
Through  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
'T  was  held  religiously  with  all  observance. 
The  Doge  resign'd  his  crimson  for  pure  ermine ; 
And  through  the  city  in  a  stately  barge  (59) 
Of  gold,  were  borne,  with  songs  and  symphonies, 
Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.    Clad  they  were 
In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments, 
Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;  and  on  the  deck, 
As  on  a  burnish'd  throne,  they  glided  by ; 
No  window  or  balcony  but  adorn'd 
With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 
But  cover'd  with  beholders,  and  the  air 
Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  they  went,  their  oars 
Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony, 
Through  the  Rialto  (60)  to  the  Ducal  Palace 
And  at  a  banquet  there,  served  with  due  honor. 
Sate  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 
Tlieir  lovely  ancestors,  the  Brides  of  Venice. 

XVI. 
FOSCARL 

Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe, 
What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 
And  now  a  groan,  is  heard.    Then  all  is  still. 
Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there ,-  (61) 
•      Men  who  have  served  their  counlr\s  and  grown  grey 
In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 
Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 
Such  as  in  effigy  shall  long  adorn 
The  walls  of  Venice — to  show  what  she  has  been  I 
Their  garb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is, 
And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 
Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  notliing  there  like  grief, 
Nothing  or  harsh  or  cruel.    Still  that  noise. 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdra\A-n, 
A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  upward. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  fnrrow'd  brow. 
His  hands  are  clench'd ;  his  eyes  half-shut  and  glazed : 
His  shnmk  and  wither 'd  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 


'T  is  Foscari,  the  Doge.    And  there  is  one, 

A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretch'd  out 

In  torture.     'T  is  his  son,  bin  Oiily  one  ; 

'T  is  Giacomo,  the  blessing  of  his  age, 

(Say,  has  he  lived  for  this  ?)  accused  of  murder, 

The  murder  of  the  Senator  Donato. 

Last  night  the  proofs,  if  proofs  they  are,  were  dropt 

Into  the  lion's  mouth,  the  mouth  of  brass. 

That  gapes  and  gorges ;  and  the  Doj,e  himself 

Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  Son 

Suffering  the  Question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace 
To  save  a  falling  house,  and  turn  the  hearts 
Of  his  fell  Adversaries,  those  who  now. 
Like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry,  are  running  down 
His  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask  their  leave 
To  lay  aside  the  Crowii,  and  they  refused  him, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask  it ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  woe. 
By  them,  his  rivals  in  the  State,  compell'd, 
Such  the  refinement  of  their  cruelty, 
To  keep  the  place  he  sigh'd  for. 

Once  again 
The  screw    is  turn'd  ;  and,  as  it  turns,  the  Son 
Looks  up,  and,  in  a  faint  and  broken  accent, 
Murmurs  "  My  Father !"  The  old  man  shrinks  back 
And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 
"Art  thou  not  guilty?"'  says  a  voice,  that  once 
Would  greet  the  Sufferer  long  before  they  met, 
And  on  his  ear  strike  like  a  pleasant  music — 
"Art  thou  not  guilty?" — "  No  I  Indeed  I  am  not!" 
But  all  is  unavaihng.     In  that  Court 
Groans  are  confessions ;  Patience,  Fortitude, 
The  work  of  Magic ;  and,  released,  upheld,* 
For  Condemnation,  from  his  Father's  lips 
He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  Candia: 
Death,  if  he  leaves  it." 

And  the  bark  sets  sail ; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves — for  ever! 
His  Avife,  his  boys,  and  his  disconsolate  parents ! 
Gone  in  the  dead  of  night — unseen  of  any — 
Without  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness. 
To  be  call'd  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours 
He  would  indulge  in  weeping. 

Like  a  ghost. 
Day  after  day,  year  afier  year,  he  haunts 
An  ancient  rampart,  that  o'erhangs  the  sea ; 
Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  starting 

To  answer  to  the  watch Alas,  how  changed 

From  him,  the  mirror  of  the  Youth  of  Venice, 
In  whom  the  slightest  thing,  or  whim  or  chance, 
Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so. 
All  follow'd  ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  at  length 
He  won  that  maid  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest,  {62> 
A  daughter  of  the  House  of  Contarini, 
That  House  as  old  as  Venice,  now  among 
Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 
Numbering  eight  Doges — to  convey  her  home, 
The  Bucentaur  went  forth ;  and  thrice  the  Sun 
Shone  on  the  Cliivalry,  that,  front  to  front. 
And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged 
To  tournay  in  St.  Mark's. 

But  lo,  at  last. 
Messengers  come.     He  is  recall'd  :  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.     He  embarks  :  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes — 
Into  that  very  Chamber!  there  to  lie 

60 


ITALY. 


53 


In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  torture ; 
And  thence  look  up  (five  long,  long  years  of  Grief 
Have  not  killed  either)  on  his  Avretched  Sire, 
Still  in  that  seat — as  though  he  had  not  left  it, 
Immovable,  enveloped  in  liis  mantle. 

But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  Venice.     Night  and  day, 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was, 
'T  was  more  than  he  could  bear.    His  longing  fits 
Thicken'd  upon  him.     His  desire  for  home 
Became  a  madness  ;  and,  resolved  to  go, 
If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writes 
A  letter  to  Francesco,  Duke  of  Milan, 
Sohciting  his  influence  with  the  State, 
And  drops  it  to  be  found. — "  Would  ye  know  all  ? 
I  have  transgress'd,  offended  wilfully;  (63) 
And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 
But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  instant 
(Ye  must  consent — for  all  of  you  are  sons, 
Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers),  let  me  first 
Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man, 
And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be. 
Press  to  my  heart  ('t  is  all  I  ask  of  you) 
IVIy  wife,  my  children — and  my  aged  mother — 
Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ?" 

He  is  condemn'd 
To  go  ere  set  of  sim,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banish'd  man — and  for  a  year  to  breathe 
The  vapor  of  a  dungeon. — But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  1)  is  granted. 

In  a  hall 
Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  rabble, 
'T  was  there  a  trembling  Wife  and  her  four  Sons 
Yet  young,  a  Mother,  borne  along,  bedridden, 
And  an  old  Doge,  mustering  up  all  his  strength. 
That  strength  how  small!  assembled  now  to  meet 
One  so  long  lost,  long  moum'd,  one  who  for  them 
Had  braved  so  much — death,  and  yet  worse  than 

death — 
To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever ! 

Time  and  their  hea\ywTongs  had  changed  them  all; 
Him  most !    Yet  when  the  Wife,  the  Mother  look'd 
Again,  'twas  he  himself  'twas  Giacomo, 
Their  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  consolation ! 
And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly ; 
Weeping  the  more,  because  tltey  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  unsettled  in  his  mind  from  long 
And  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  aloud  and  cries 
Kissing  the  old  Man's  cheek,  "  Help  me,  my  Father! 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  you  : 
Let  me  go  home." — "  My  Son,"  returns  the  Doge, 
Mastering  awhile  his  grief,  "  if  I  may  still 
Call  thee  my  Son,  if  thou  art  innoce.it. 
As  I  would  fain  believe,"  but,  as  he  speaks, 
He  falls,  "submit  without  a  murmur." 

Night, 
That  to  the  World  brought  revelry,  to  them 
Brought  only  food  for  sorrow.     Giacomo 
Embark'd — to  die  ;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  thee,  Erizzo,  whose  death-bed  confession, 
"  He  is  most  innocent !    'T  was  I  who  did  it !" 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.    The  ship,  that  sail'd 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  recall  to  Honor, 
Bore  back  a  lifeless  corse.     Generous  as  brave, 


Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  love  and  duty,  were  to  him  as  needful 
As  was  his  daily  bread  ; — and  to  become 
A  byword  in  the  meanest  mouths  of  Venice, 
Bringhig  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life. 
On  those,  alas,  now  woi-se  than  fatherless — 
To  be  proclaim'd  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber, 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach- 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.     That  hope  lost, 
Death  follow'd.     From  the  hour  he  went,  he  spoke 

not; 
And  in  his  dungeon,  when  he  laid  him  down. 
He  sunk  to  rise  no  more.     Oh,  if  there  be 
Justice  in  Heaven,  and  we  are  assured  there  is, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  Retribution  I 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  Man,  full  to  o'erflowing. 
But  thou  wert  yet  alive  ;  and  there  was  one. 
The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  Enmitj-, 
W^io  would  not  leave  thee ;  fastening  on  thy  flank, 
Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatis^ied  : 
One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own ! 
One  of  the  Ten !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three !  (64) 
'T  was  Loredano. 

When  the  whelps  Avere  gone. 
He  would  dislodge  the  Lion  from  his  den ; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led. 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howl'd 
Against  fallen  Greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  Doge  no  longer ;  urging  his  great  age, 
His  incapacity  and  nothingness  ; 
Calling  a  Father's  sorrows  in  his  chamber 
Neglect  of  duty,  anger,  contumacy. 
"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  Foscari : 
"  But  I  have  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 
Do  with  me  as  ye  please." 

He  was  deposed, 
He,  who  had  reign'd  so  long  and  gloriously ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow. 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  ring,  that  ancient  symbol, 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.    All  things  alike! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.     "  I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo." 
"  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend." 

And  now  he  goes.     "  It  is  the  hour  and  past. 
I  have  no  business  here." — "  But  wilt  thon  not 
Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  ?    That  way  is  private." 
"  No !  as  I  enter 'd,  so  will  I  retire." 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff]  he  left  the  Palace, 
His  residence  for  four-and-thirty  years. 
By  the  same  staircase  he  came  up  in  splendor. 
The  staircase  of  the  Giants.     Turning  round, 
When  in  the  court  below,  he  stopt  and  said 
"  My  merits  brought  me  hither.     I  depart, 
Driven  by  the  malice  of  my  Enemies." 
Then  through  the  crowd  withdrew,  poor  as  he  carao 
And  in  his  gondola  went  off,  imfollow'd 
But  by  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  last.    "When  the  bell  rang. 
Next  day,  announcing  a  new  Doge  to  Venice, 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  altar,  (65) 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer ; 
And  there  he  died.     Ere  half  its  task  was  done, 

61 


54 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate 
That  caused  all  this — the  hate  of  Loredano  ? 
It  was  a  legacjr  his  Father  left  him, 
Who,  but  for  Foscari,  had  reign'd  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gatlier'd  and  grew!  Nothing  but  turn'd  to  venom! 
In  vain  did  Foscari  sue  for  peace,  for  friendship, 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  Isabel. 
He  changed  not ;  with  a  dreadful  pietj,'. 
Studying  revenge !  listening  alone  to  diose 
^Vho  talk'd  of  vengeance  ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none,  alas,  were  wanting) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  Wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.    When  his  father  died, 
'Twas  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "He  died  by  poison!" 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb  ('t  is  there  in  marble) 
And  in  his  ledger-book — (66)  among  his  debtors — 
Enter'd  the  name  "  Francesco  Foscari," 
And  added,  "  For  the  murder  of  my  Father." 
Leaving  a  blank — to  be  filfd  up  hereafter. 
When  Foscari's  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way, 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  \\ith  his  pen  fiU'd  up  the  blank. 
Inscribing,  "He  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit, 
Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  though  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  yoiu*  fangs. 
And,  like  the  Pisan,'  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  liira  who  had  offended — if  ye  must. 
Sit  and  brood  on ;  but  oh !  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 

X\1I. 
ARQUA. 

There  is,  \\ithin  three  leagues  and  less  of  Padua 
(The  Paduan  student  knows  it,  honors  it), 
A  lonely  tomb-stone  in  a  moimtain-churchyard ; 
And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 
Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  airs,  that  breathe 
Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 
Singing  their  farewell-song — the  ver}'  song 
They  sung  the  night  that  tomb  received  a  tenant ; 
When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  Canon's  habit 
And,  slowly  \vinding  down  the  narrow  path 
He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 
Princes  and  prelates  mingled  in  his  train. 
Anxious  by  any  act,  Vvhile  yet  they  could, 
To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  reflection  ; 
And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  f^ock'd  (67) 
From  distant  countries,  from  the  north,  the  south. 
To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago. 
When  1  descended  the  impetuous  Rhone, 
Its  vmeyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown,  (68) 
Its  castles,  each  uith  some  romantic  tale. 
Vanishing  fast — the  pilot  at  the  stern, 
He  who  had  steer'd  so  long,  standing  aloft. 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 
On  what  at  once  served  him  for  oar  and  rudder, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank — the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  laiinch'd  to  retm-n  no  more. 


1  Count  Ugolino. 


Such  as  a  shipwreck'd  man  might  hope  to  build, 
Urged  by  the  iove  of  home — when  1  descended 
Two  long,  long  days'  silepce,  suspense  on  board. 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  \'alclusa. 
Entering  the  arched  Cave,  to  wander  where 
Petrarch  had  wander'd,  in  a  trance  to  sit 
Where  in  his  peasant-dress  he  loved  to  sit, 

I  Musing,  reciting — on  some  rock  moss-grown, 
Or  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  fic-tree, 

I  That  drinks  the  living  waters  as  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald-bed  ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  to  visit  Arqua,  (69)  where,  at  last. 
When  he  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world, 
When  all  the  illusions  of  his  Youth  were  fled, 
Indulged  perhaps  too  long,  cherish'd  too  fondly. 
He  came  for  the  conclusion  ?    Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house,  (70)  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught 
Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life, 

I  That  soothed,  not  stirr'd. — But  knock,  and  enter  in. 

i  Tills  was  his  chamber.    'T  is  as  \\  hen  he  left  it ; 
As  if  he  now  were  busy  in  his  garden. 
And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sate  and  read. 
This  was  his  chair ;  and  in  it,  unobserved, 
Reading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends. 
He  pass'd  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

Peace  to  tliis  region !  Peace  to  all  who  dwell  here 
They  know  his  value — everj'  coming  step. 
That  gathers  round  the  children  from  their  play, 
AVould  tell  them  if  they  knew  not. — But  could  aught, 
Ungentle  or  ungenerous,  spring  up 
^Vhere  he  is  sleeping ;  where,  and  in  an  age 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry. 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ;  (71) 
Leading  to  better  tilings  ? 

XVIIL 

GINEVRA. 

If  ever  you  should  come  to  INIodena, 
Where  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs,  (72) 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina), 
Stop  at  a  Palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini, 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses. 
Will  long  detain  you — but,  before  you  go, 
Enter  the  house — forget  it  not,  I  pray — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  Lady  in  her  earliest  youth. 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zarapieri  (73) — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He,  who  observes  it — ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again. 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclijiing  forward  as  to  speak. 
Her  lips  half-open,  and  her  finger  up. 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware  I"  her  vest  of  gold 
Broider'd  with  flowers,  and  clasp'd  from  head  to  foot. 
An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth. 
The  overflowings  of  an  irmocent  heart — 


1 


ITALY. 


55 


It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken-chest,  half-eaten  by  the  worm. 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  scripture-stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  Ancestor — 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  the  tale  they  told  me  there. 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Ginevra, 
The  joy,  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  Father ; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 
Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gaiety. 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour  ; 
Now,  frowTiing,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preach'd  decorum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy  ;  but  at  the  Nuptial  Feast, 
When  all  sate  down,  the  Bride  herself  was  wanting, 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found !    Her  Father  cried, 
"  'T  is  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !  " 
And  fill'd  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'T  was  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco, 
Laugliing  and  looldng  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas,  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anythmg  be  guess'd. 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Wearj'^  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking. 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awliile 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 


Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten, 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  Gallery, 
That  mouldering  chest  Avas  noticed ;  and  't  was 
By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ? " 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton. 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perish'd — save  a  wedding-ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy. 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave  I 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal'd  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy ; 


When  a  spring-lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fasten'd  her  down  for  ever ! 

XIX. 
BOLOGNA. 
'T  WAS  night ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.    The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures — he  and  his  stage  were  gone ; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and  fear 
Sent  roimd  his  cap;  and  he  who  thrumm'd  his  wire 
And  sang,  with  pleading  look  and  plainrive  strain 
Melting  the  passenger.  Thy  thousand  cries,' 
So  well  portray'd  and  by  a  son  of  thine, 
Whose  voice  had  swell'd  the  hubbub  in  his  youth. 
Were  hush'd,  Bologna  ;  silence  in  the  streets. 
The  squares,  when  hark,  the  clattering  of  fleet  hoofs ' 
And  soon  a  courier,  posting  as  from  far. 
Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat 
And  doublet,  stain'd  with  many  a  various  soil, 
Stopt  and  alighted.  'T  was  where  hangs  aloft 
That  ancient  sign,  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 
All  who  arrive  there,  all  perhaps  save  those 
Clad  like  himself,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell, 
Those  on  a  pilgrimage  :  and  now  approach'd 
Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticoes  resounding. 
Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 
As  the  sky  changes.    To  the  gate  they  came ; 
And,  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done, 
Mine  host  received  the  Master — one  long  used 
To  sojourn  among  strangers,  ever\-where 
(Go  where  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 
Flingmg  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost. 
And  leaving  footsteps  to  be  traced  by  those 
Who  love  the  haunts  of  Genius ;  one  who  saw, 
Observed,  nor  shunn'd  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 
But  mingled  not,  and,  'mid  the  din,  the  stir. 
Lived  as  a  separate  Spirit. 

Much  had  pass'd 
Since  last  we  parted  ;  and  those  five  short  years — 
Much  had  they  told  !  His  clustering  locks  were  tum'il 
Grey ;  nor  did  aught  recall  the  Youth  that  swam 
From  Sestos  to  Abydos.     Yet  his  voice, 
Still  it  was  sweet ;  still  from  his  eye  the  thought 
Flash'd  lightning-like,  nor  hnger'd  on  the  way, 
Waiting  for  w^ords.    Far,  far  into  the  night 
We  sate,  conversing — no  unwelcome  hour, 
The  hour  we  met ;  and,  when  Aurora  rose, 
Rising,  we  climbed  the  rugged  Apennine. 


Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 
Fill'd  with  its  beams  the  unfathomable  gulfs. 
As  on  we  travell'd,  and  along  the  ridge, 
said !  'Mid  groves  of  cork  and  cistus  and  wild  fig, 

His  motley  household  came — Not  last  nor  least, 

Battista,  who  upon  the  moonlight-sea 

Of  Venice,  had  so  ably,  zealously 

Served,  and,  at  parting,  flung  his  oar  away 

To  follow  through  the  world ;  who  without  stam 

Had  worn  so  long  that  honorable  badge,^ 


1  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drawn  by  Annibal  Carracci 
He  was  of  very  humble  origin ;  and,  to  correct  his  brother's 
vanity,  once  sent  him  a  portrait  of  their  father,  the  tailor, 
threading  his  needle. 

2  The  principal  gondolier,  il  fante  di  poppa,  was  almost  al- 
ways in  the  confidence  of  his  master,  and  enoployed  oa  occa 
eions  that  required  Judgmem  and  address. 

63 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  gondolier's,  in  a  Patrician  House 
Arguing  unlimited  trust. — Not  last  nor  least, 
Thou,  though  declining  in  thy  beauty  and  strength, 
Faithful  Moretto,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber-door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  strand  of  Missolonghi 
Howling  in  grief. 

He  had  just  left  that  place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  sea,' 
Ravenna  ;  where,  from  Dante's  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares,^ 
Drawii  inspiration ;  where,  at  twilight-time, 
Through  the  pine-forest  wandering  with  loose  rein, 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  so  oft  beheld  ^ 
(What  is  not  visible  to  a  Poet's  eye  ?) 
The  spectre-knight,  the  hell-hounds,  and  their  prey, 
The  chase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 
Suddenly  blasted.    'T  was  a  theme  he  loved, 
But  others  claim'd  their  turn ;  and  many  a  tower, 
Shatter'd,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock, 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  heroic  age, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd  (many  a  sturdy  steer  * 
Yoked  and  unyoked),  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  pour'd  his  spirit  forth.    The  past  forgot, 
All  was  enjoyment.    Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present  or  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest ; 
And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike. 
Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  Byron,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  through  the  firmament 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.     Yet  thy  heart,  methinlis, 
Was  generous,  noble — noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  lovv  or  little  :  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Thuags  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know. 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations  :  and,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert, 
Thy  wish  accomplish'd ;  dying  in  the  land 
Where  thy  young  mind  had  caught  ethereal  fire, 
Dpng  in  Greece,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious ! 

They  in  thy  train — ah,  little  did  they  think, 
As  round  we  went,  that  they  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  Nation  mourn'd, 
Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song  ; 
That  they  so  soon  should  hear  the  minute-gim, 
As  morning  gleam'd  on  what  remain'd  of  thee. 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  moxuitains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thou  art  gone ; 
And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave, 
Oh,  let  him  pause !    For  who  among  us  all. 
Tried  as  thou  wert — even  from  thine  earliest  years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland-boy — 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame ; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,-  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine 
Her  charmed  cup — ah,  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  err'd  as  much,  and  more  ? 


1  Adrianum  mare.— C«c.       2  See  the  Prophecy  of  Dante. 

3  See  the  tale  as  told  by  Boccaccio  and  Drijden. 

4  They  wait  for  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  of  every  hill. 


XX. 

FLORENCE. 

Of  all  the  fah-est  cities  of  the  earth 
None  are  so  fair  as  Florence.   'T  is  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray,  a  treasure  for  a  casket ! 
And  what  a  glorious  lustre  did  it  shed,  (74) 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness !    Search  within, 
Without,  all  is  enchantment!  'Tis  the  past 
Contending  with  the  present ;  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

In  this  chapel  wrought  (75) 
IMassaccio ;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  his  monument  ?    Look  round! 
And  know  that  where  we  stand,  stood  oft  and  long, 
Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  Raphael  himself, 
He  and  his  haughty  Rival — patiently, 
Humbly,  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before, 
To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs,  who  first  broke  the  gloom,  Sons  of  the  Morning. 

There,  on  the  seat  that  runs  along  the  wall. 
South  of  the  Church,  east  of  the  belfry-tower 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it),  in  the  sulti-y  time 
Would  Dante  sit  conversing  (76),  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assign'd  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world, 
To  some  an  upper,  some  a  lower  region; 
Reserving  in  his  secret  mind  a  niche 
For  thee,  Saltrello,  who  with  quirks  of  law 
Hadst  plagued  him  sore,  and  carefully  requiti? 
Such  as  ere-long  condemn'd  his  mortal  part 
To  fire.  (78)  Sit  down  awhile — then  by  the  gates 
Wondrously  wrought,  so  beautiful,  so  glorious, 
That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  Heav?n, 
F.nter  the  Baptistery.    That  place  he  loved, 
CaUingithisI    And  in  his  visits  there 
Well  might  he  take  delight !    For,  when  a  child. 
Playing,  with  venturous  feet,  near  and  yet  nearer 
One  of  the  fonts,  fell  in,  he  flew  and  saved  him,  (79) 
Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence, 
That  broke  the  marble — a  mishap  ascribed 
To  evil  motives  ;  his,  alas  !  to  lead 
A  life  of  trouble,  and  ere-long  to  leave 
All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere-long  to  know 
How  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  how  toilsome 
The  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs. 

Nor  then  forget  that  Chamber  of  the  Dead, (80) 
Where  the  gigantic  forms  of  Night  and  Day, 
Turn'd  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly, 
Yet  still  are  breathing;  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A.  two-fold  influence — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.    There,  from  age  to  age. 
Two  Ghosts  are  sitting  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the. Duke  Lorenzo.     Mark  him  well.  (81) 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  scowls  beneath  his  broad  and  helm-like  bonnet  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 
'T  is  hid  in  shade ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk. 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard, 

64 


_.J 


ITALY. 


57 


At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 

On  that  thrice-hallow'd  day,  (82)  when  all  are  there  ; 

When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs. 

With  light,  and  frankincense,  and  holy  water, 

Visit  the  Dead.    Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power ! 

But  let  not  Sculpture,  Painting,  Poesy, 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  homage  is  to  Virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  Citadel 
(It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  wall  (83) 
Cannot  be  gone — 'twas  cut  in  Avith  his  dagger, 
Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  he  slew  himself). 
Where,  in  what  dungeon,  did  Filippo  Strozzi, 
The  last,  the  greatest  of  the  Men  of  Florence, 
Breathe  out  his  soul — lest  in  his  agony, 
When  on  the  rack  and  call'd  upon  to  answer, 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless. 

That  debt  paid, 
But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty. 
We  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit — worshipping. 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,* 
V'enus  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies, 
Came  hither. 

XXI. 

DON  GARZIA. 

Among  the  awful  forms  that  stand  assembled 
In  the  great  square  of  Florence,  may  be  seen 
That  Cosmo,  (84)  not  the  J  ather  of  his  Country, 
Not  he  so  styled,  but  he  who  play'd  the  tyrant. 
Clad  in  rich  armor  like  a  paladin, 
But  with  his  helmet  ofF — in  kingly  state. 
Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass ; 
And  they,  who  read  the  legend  underneath. 
Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet  there  is 
A  Chamber  at  Grosseto,  that,  if  walls 
Could  speak,  and  tell  of  what  is  done  within, 
Would  turn  your  admiration  into  pity. 
Half  of  what  pass'd  died  with  him  ;  but  the  rest. 
All  he  discover'd  when  the  fit  was  on. 
All  that,  by  those  who  listen'd,  could  be  glean'd 
From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 
Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler.  (85) 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garzia 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  sixteenth  summer). 
Went  to  the  chase ;  but  one  of  them,  Giovamii, 
His  best  beloved,  the  glory  of  his  house, 
Retum'd  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 
Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.    Too  well,  alas! 
The  trembling  Cosmo  guess'd  the  deed,  the  doer ; 
And  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 
In  secret  to  that  chamber — at  an  hour 
When   all   slept  sound,  save   the  disconsolate  Mo 

ther,2  (S6) 
Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  come. 
And  lived  but  to  be  told — he  bade  Garzia 
Arise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 
A  winking  lamp,  and  in  the  other  a  key 
Massive  and  dungeon-like,  tliither  he  led  ; 
And,  having  euter'd  in  and  lock'd  the  door, 
The  father  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  the  son, 
And  closely  questioned  him.    No  change  betray'd 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  hfted  up 


1  The  Tribune. 


8  Eleonora  di  Toledo. 
F2 


The  bloody  sheet.     "  Look  there  !  Look  there  '"  he 
cried, 

Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand ! 

-Unless  thyself  wilt  save  him  that  sad  office. 
What !"  he  exclaim'd,  when,  shuddering  at  the  sight. 
The  boy  breathed  out,  "  I  stood  but  on  my  guard." 

Darest  thou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wrong'd 
thee, 
Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? — 
Yes,  thou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee, 
And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 
Then  from  Garzia's  side  he  took  the  dagger, 
That  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  "Great  God  I''  he  cried, 

Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  Justice. 
Thou  knowest  what  it  costs  me ;  but,  alas. 
How  can  I  spare  m3-self,  sparing  none  else 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will — and  oh  forgive 
The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wTetched  son. 
'Tis  a  most  wretched  father  who  implores  it." 
Long  on  Garzia's  neck  he  hung,  and  wept 
Tenderly,  long  press'd  him  to  his  bosom ; 
And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  aim. 
Thrusting  him  backward,  tum'd  away  his  face, 
And  stabb'd  him  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  De  Thou, 
W'hen  in  his  youth  he  came  to  Cosmo's  court. 
Think  on  the  past ;  and,  as  he  wander'd  through 
The  x\ncient  Palace  (87) — through  those  ample  spaces 
Silent,  deserted — stop  awhile  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  draAvn  on  the  wall  (88) 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love, 
One  in  a  Cardinal's  habit,  one  in  black, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  infer 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew,  (89) 
The  terrible  truth. 

Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 
That  verj'  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy  and  deaf  and  inarticulate. 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess. 
In  the  last  stage — death-struck  and  deadly  pale ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  Eleonora, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 

XXII. 
THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE. 
'T  IS  morning.    Let  us  wander  through  the  fields, 
Where  Cimabue  (90)  found  a  shepherd-boy ' 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Whence  Galileo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  round  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-color'd  oxen 
Are  plowing  up  and  down  among  the  \-ines, 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud. 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee, 
Beautiful  Florence,  (91)  all  within  thy  walls, 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers, 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caught 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  tne  rest  (92; 
Bv  One  of  Old  distinguish'd  as  The  Bride, 
Let  us  pursue  in  thought  (what  can  we  better?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-prayers ;  =  (93) 


1  Giotto. 


2  See  the  Decameron.    First  Day. 
65 


58 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


^Vho,  when  Vice  revell'd.  and  along  ihe  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;  (94)  and,  awhile 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly, 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun-proof — day  after  day, 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  Cicala's  voice  among  ihe  olives. 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care, 
Their  hundred  novels. 

Round  the  hill  they  went,  (95) 
Ronnd  underneath — first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs, 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale ; 
A  place  for  Luxury — the  painted  rooms, 
The  open  galleries  and  middle  court 
Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 
Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  yet ; 
That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 
Where  Art  with  Nature  vied — a  Paradise, 
With  verdurous  walls,  and  many  a  trellis'd  walk 
All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  forest-vista 
Cross'd  by  the  deer.    Then  to  the  Ladies'  Valley; 
And  the  clear  lake,  that  seem'd  as  by  enchantment 
To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 
Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 
Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold, 
Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day? 
The  morning-banquet  by  the  fountain-side,  (96) 
The  dance  that  follow'd,  and  the  noon-tide  slumber ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring; 
And  the  short  interval  till'd  up  with  games 
Of  Chess,  and  talk,  and  reading  old  Romances, 
Till  supper-time,  when  many  a  syren-voice 
Sung  down  the  stars,  and  in  the  grass  the  torches 
Burnt  brighter  for  their  absence. 

He,'  whose  dream 
It  was  (it  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  Val  d'Elsa, 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where  (in  his  oar  I  ween) 
The  Friar  pour'd  oat  his  catalogue  of  treasures;  (97) 
A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 
To  the  Wise  Men  ;  a  phial-full  of  sounds. 
The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 
In  Solomon's  Temple  ;  and,  though  last  not  least, 
A  feather  from  the  Angel  Gabriel's  wing, 
Dropt  in  the  Virgin's  chamber. 

That  dark  ridge 
Stretching  away  in  the  South-east,  conceals  it; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm,  (98) 
His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left, 
\\lio  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 
Exile  and  want,  and  the  keen  .shafts  of  Malice, 
With  an  unclouded  mind.^    The  glimmering  tower 
On  the  grey  rock  beneath,  his  land-mark  once. 
Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 
His  bread  with  cheerfulness. 

'^^Tio  sees  him  not 
(.'T  is  his  o\vn  sketch — he  drew  it  from  himself)  (99) 
Playing  the  bird-catcher,  and  salh'ing  forth 
In  an  autumnal  morn,  laden  with  cages, 


1  Boccaccio. 


2  Machiavel. 


To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there  • 
Or  in  the  wood  among  his  wood-cutters ; 
Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway-side 
At  tric-trac  with  the  miller;  or  at  night, 
Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad, 
Entering  his  closet,  and,  among  his  books, 
Among  the  Great  of  every  age  and  clime, 
A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 
Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that. 
And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 
Of  poverty  and  death  ? 

Nearer  we  hail 
Thy  sunny  slope,  Arcetri,  sung  of  Old 
For  its  green  wine  (100) — dearer  to  me,  to  most. 
As  dwelt  on  by  that  great  Astronomer,' 
Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gale,  (101) 
Let  in  but  in  his  grave-clothes.     Sacred  be 
His  cottage  (justly  was  it  call'd  The  Jewel !)  (102j 
Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 
Glimmer 'd,  at  blush  of  dawn  he  dress'd  his  vines, 
Chanting  aloud  in  gaiety  of  heart 
Some  verse  of  Ariosto.    There,  unseen,  (103) 
In  manly  beauty  Milton  stood  before  him. 
Gazing  with  reverent  awe — Milton,  his  guest. 
Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 
He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity. 
Blind,  at  noon-day  exploring  with  his  staff; 
His  eyes  upturn'd  as  to  the  golden  sun, 
His  eye-balls  idly  rolling.     Little  then 
Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  bade  welcome ; 
That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 
Who  could  requite  him — who  would  spread  his  name 
0"er  lands  and  seas — great  as  himself,  nay  greater; 
Milton  as  httle  that  in  him  he  saw, 
As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be, 
Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 
And  evil  tongues — so  soon,  alas,  to  live 
In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compass'd  round, 
And  solitude. 

Well  pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  Arno,  from  his  birth-place  in  the  clouds. 
So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's  (104) — springing  up 
From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
That  mountain-ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  Sea.     Downward  he  runs, 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate  wild, 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits,  (105)  and,  ere-long, 
The  venerable  woods  of  Vallombrosa ; 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  Tuscan  sea, 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  Rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
Florence  and  Pisa — who  have  given  him  fame, 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stain'd  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas,  were  seen. 
When  flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were  there, 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring ;  (106) 
The  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed. 
Borne  imderneath — already  in  the  realms 
Of  Darkness. 

Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  Artist  saw,^  (107) 
Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  crj^  "  To  arms  I" 
And  the  shrill  trumpet,  hurried  up  the  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide, 


1  Galileo. 


2  Michael  Angelo. 
^6 


ITALY. 


59 


And  wash  from  their  unhamess'd  limbs  the  blood 

And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush, 

Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight, 

Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew ; 

Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  feature, 

Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on 

Morion  and  greave  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 

As  for  his  life — no  more  perchance  to  taste, 

Arno,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades. 

Thy  Avaters — where,  exulting,  he  had  felt 

A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas,  to  float 

And  welter.     Nor  between  the  gusts  of  War, 

When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's  pipe 

Gladden'd  the  valley,  when,  but  not  unarm'd. 

The    sower   came    forth,  and,  following    him   who 

plow'd, 
Threw  in  the  seed — did  thy  indignant  waves 
Escape  pollution.     Sullen  was  the  splash. 
Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 
The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 
Of  Ugolino — closing  up  for  ever 
That  dismal  dungeon  henceforth  to  be  named 
The  Tower  of  Famine. 

Once  indeed  't  was  thine, 
"When  many  a  winter-flood,  thy  tributary, 
Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding, 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 
A  charge  most  precious.    To  the  nearest  ford, 
Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  came, 
Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 
Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff 
That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.     He  spurs, 
He  enters;  and  his  horse,  alarm'd,  perplex'd. 
Halts  in  the  midst.     Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife ; 
And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea,  (108) 
The  babe  is  floating !    Fast  and  far  he  flies  ; 
Now  tempest-rock'd,  now  whirling  round  and  round, 
But  not  to  perish.     By  thy  willing  waves 
Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes 
The  ark  has  rested  ;  and  unhurt,  secure. 
As  on  his  mother's  breast  he  sleeps  within. 
All  peace !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 
That  voice  so  s^veet,  which  still  enchants,  inspires ; 
That  voice,  which  sung  of  love,  of  liberty. 

Petrarch  lay  there  ! And  such  the  images 

That  cluster'd  round  our  Milton,  when  at  eve 
Reclined  beside  thee,  (1U9)  Arno ;  when  at  eve, 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wander'd  with  delight, 
Framing  Ovidian  verse,  and  through  thy  groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.     Such  the  Poet's  dreams  ,• 
Yet  not  such  only.     For  look  round  and  say, 
VvHiere  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  warm  blood, 
The  echo  that  had  learnt  not  to  articulate 
The  cry  of  murder  ? — Fatal  was  the  day ' 
To  Fk)rence,  when  ('t  was  in  a  street  behind 
The  church  and  convent  of  the  Holy  Cross — 
There  is  the  house — that  house  of  the  Donati, 
Towerlcss,  (110)  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Bra\ing  assault — all  rugged,  all  emboss'd 
Below,  and  still  distinguish'd  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival-time 
Their  family-standards)  fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when,  at  mom,  at  the  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  Dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
Weeds  to  be  worn  hereafter  bv  so  many, 


1  See  Note. 


Stood  at  her  door ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 

Her  dazzling  spell.     Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 

Rich  in  a  liidden  pearl  of  heavenly  light, 

Her  daughter's  beauty ;  and  too  well  she  knew 

Its  virtue  I     Patiently  she  stood  and  watch 'd  ; 

Nor  stood  alone — but  spoke  not. — In  her  breast 

Her  purpose  lay ;  and,  as  a  youth  pass'd  by, 

Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said, 

Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 

"  This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 

This  hast  thou  lost !"     He  gazed,  and  was  undone ! 

Forgetting — not  forgot — he  broke  the  bond, 

And  paid  the  penalty,  losing  his  life 

At  the  bridge-foot ;  (111)  and  hence  a  world  of  woe. 

\"engeance  for  vengeance  crjing,  blood  lor  blood ; 

No  intermission !    Law,  that  slumbers  not, 

And,  hke  the  Angel  with  the  flaming  sword, 

Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healuig. 

Himself  the  Avenger,  went;  and  every  street 

Ran  red  with  mutual  slaughter — though  sometimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 

And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  ihee,  Imeida, 

Thee  and  thy  Paolo.     ^Vhen  last  ye  met 

In  that  siill  hoar  (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone, 

Not  so  the  Sj3lendor — through  the  cedar-grove 

A  radiance  stream'd  like  a  consuming  fire, 

As  though  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent. 

Had  come  and  rested  there)  when  last  ye  met. 

And  those  relentless  brothers  dragg'd  him  forth, 

It  had  been  well,  hadst  thou  slept  on,  Imeida,  (112) 

Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 

Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead. 

To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find. 

Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 

A  sigh,  if  yet  thou  couldst  (alas,  thou  couldst  not) 

And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of — from  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison.  (113) 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came 
Worse  follow'd.  (114)  Genius,  Valor  left  the  land. 
Indignant — all  that  had  from  age  to  age 
Adorn'd,  ennobled  ;  and  headlong  they  fell, 
Tyrant  and  slave.     For  deeds  of  violence, 
Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  half-redeem'd 
By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 
Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl, 
The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 
Unnoticed,  in  slouch'd  hat  and  muffling  cloal<. 
That  just  discover'd,  Caravaggio-like, 
A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame. 
The  Bravo  took  his  stand,  and  o'er  the  shoulder 
Plunged  to  the  hilt,  or  from  beneath  the  ribs 
Slanting  (a  surer  path,  as  some  averr'd) 
Struck  upward — then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued, 
Made  for  the  Sanctuary,  and  there  along 
The  glimmering  aisle  among  the  worshippers 
Wander'd  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look, 
Dropping  thick  gore. 

Misnamed  to  lull  suspicion, 
In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory,  (J  15) 
WTiere  he  within  brew'd  poisons  swift  and  slow, 
That  scattered  terror  till  all  things  seem'd  poisonous. 
And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 
A  nosegay  or  a  letter;  while  the  Great 
Drank  from  the  Venice-glass,  that  broke,  that  shiver'd« 
If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  tliine  was  there. 
Cruel  Tophana;  (116)  and  pawn'd  provinces 

67 


60 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  the  miraculous  gem  that  to  the  wearer 
Gave  signs  iiifaUible  of  coming  ill,  (117) 
That  clouded  though  the  vehicle  of  death 
Were  an  invisible  perfume. 

Happy  then 
The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping-time  't  was  said, 
But  in  an  under- voice  (a  lady's  page 
Speaks  in  no  louder)  "  Pass  not  on.    That  door 
Leads  to  another  which  awaits  your  coming. 
One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas,  unbolted,  (118) 
No  eye  detects  it — lying  under-foot, 
Just  as  you  enter,  at  the  threshold-stone ; 
Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  you  into  darkness, 
Darkness  and  long  oblivion  I " 

Then  indeed 
Where  lurk'd  not  danger  ?    Through  the  fairy-land 
No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  half-way  down. 
No  hunting-place — but  with  some  damning  spot 
That  will  not  be  wash'd  out!  There, at Caiano,  (119) 
Where,  when  the  hawks  were  hooded  and  Night  came, 
Pulci  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar 
With  his  wild  lay  (120) — there,  where  the  Sun  de- 
scends. 
And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veil'd  with  his  beams, 
The  fair  Venetian '  died — she  and  her  lord. 
Died  of  a  posset  drugg'd  by  him  who  sate 
And  saAv  them  suiTer,  flinging  back  the  charge, 
The  murderer  on  the  murder'd. 

Sobs  of  Grief,- 
Sounds  inarticulate — suddenly  stopt. 
And  foUow'd  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 
A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 
Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases, 
Nightly  at  twelve ;  and,  at  the  self-same  hour, 
Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul. 
Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long. 
Long  wailing,  echo  through  the  emptiness 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills,  (121) 
Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala : 
In  them,  in  both,  within  Ave  days  and  less, 
Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair. 
Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly. 
One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fatal  noose. 

But  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting ;  (122)  earth  and  sky 
One  blaze  of  glory — What  but  now  we  saw 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been ! 
He  lingers  yet,  and,  lessening  to  a  point. 
Shines  like  the  eye  of  Heaven — then  withdraws ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red  !     The  hour  is  come. 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas 
Languish  for  home ;  and  they  that  in  the  mom 
Said  to  sweet  friends  "farewell,"  melt  as  at  parting; 
When,  journeying  on,  tlie  pilgrim,  if  he  hears. 
As  now  we  hear  it,  echoing  round  the  hill. 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  djing  day. 
Slackens  his  pace  and  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
lx)ves  more  than  ever.     But  who  feels  it  not? 
And  well  may  we,  for  we  are  far  away, 
l^et  us  retire,  and  hail  it  in  our  hearts. 


1  Bianca  Capello. 


2  See  Note. 


PART  11. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

It  was  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  hr  came  ; 
The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path. 
His  radiant  v^ings  unfolded.     From  below 
The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively : 
And  odors,  such  as  welcome  in  the  day, 
Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller. 
And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last. 
Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight; 
And  not  a  living  thing  but  bless'd  the  hour! 
In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 
Responsive  I 

From  the  Thrasymene,  that  now 
Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 
And  from  the  shore  that  once,  when  armies  met,  (123 
Rocked  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 
The  rage,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turn'd  away; 
The  path,  that  led  me,  leading  through  a  wood 
A  fairy-wilderness  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
And  by  a  brook  (124)  that,  in  the  day  of  strife, 
Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber — when  a  glade, 
Far,  far  within,  sunn'd  only  at  noon-day. 
Suddenly  open'd.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 
Each  round  its  ancient  elm;  and  manya  track. 
Well  known  to  them  that  from  the  highway  loved 
Awhile  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 
Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood. 
Solemn,  severe  ;  coeval  with  the  trees 
That  round  it  in  majestic  order  rose ; 
And  on  the  lowest  step  a  Pilgrim  knelt, 
Clasping  his  hands  in  prayer.     He  was  the  first 
Yet  seen  by  me  (save  in  a  midnight-masque, 
A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part. 
And  they,  that  speak,  at  once  dissolve  the  charm) 
The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit; 
And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid. 
He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont, 
A  traveller's  greeting. 

Young,  and  of  an  age 
When  Youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 
Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  if  I  err  not. 
From  some  attendant  Spirit,  that  ere-long 
(His  charge  relinquish'd  with  a  sigh,  a  tear) 
Wings  his  flight  upward — with  a  look  he  won 
My  favor ;  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 
I  could  not  but  continue. 

"  Whence,"  I  ask'd, 
"  Whence  art  thou  ?" — "  From  Mont'  alto,"  he  replied 
"  My  native  vfllage  in  the  Apennines." 
"  And  whither  journeying?" — "To  the  holy  shrine 
Of  Saint  Antonio,  in  the  City  of  Padua. 
Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 
Thou  wilt  direct  my  course." — "  Most  willingly ; 
But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure, 
Ere  thou  hast  enter'd  where  the  silver  lamps 
Burn  ever.    Tell  me — I  would  not  transgress. 
Yet  ask  I  must — what  could  have  brought  thee  forth, 
i  Nothing  in  act  or  thought  lo  be  atoned  for  ?" — 

68 


ITALY. 


Gl 


*  It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  my  distress. 

We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we, 

Till  Sickness  came.     First,  as  death-struck,  I  fell ; 

Then  my  beloved  sister  ;  and  ere-long, 

Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day, 

Our  saint-like  mother.     Worse  and  worse  she  grew; 

And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  vow'd, 

That  if  she  lived,  if  Heaven  restored  her  to  us, 

I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  Pilgrim's  weeds. 

Visit  that  holy  shrine.     My  vow  was  heard  ; 

And  therefore  am  1  come." — "Thou  hast  done  well ; 

.  And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old, 

'  Guard  thee  in  danger !" — 

]  "They  are  nothing  worth. 

'  But  they  are  worn  in  humble  confidence  ; 
Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign,  them. 
Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  well, 
Lauretta  and  ray  sister ;  theirs  the  task. 
But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight, 
To  ph'  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 
As  best  became  this  service.     Their  last  words, 
<Fare  thee  well.  Carlo.    We  shall  count  the  hours!' 
Will  not  go  from  me." — 

"Health  and  strength  be  thine 
In  thy  long  travel !    May  no  sun-beam  strike  ; 
No  vapor  cling  and  wither  I    Mayest  thou  be. 
Sleeping  or  waking,  sacred  and  secure  I 
And,  when  again  thou  comest,  thy  labor  done, 
Joy  be  among  ye  I    In  that  happy  hour 
All  vdW  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome.  Carlo; 
And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived. 
One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last." — 
"  Oh,  she  is  true  as  Truth  itself  can  be ! 
But  ah,  thou  knowest  her  not.     Would  that  thou 

couldst  I 
My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her ; 
For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 
I  shall  return  the  sooner." 

II. 

AN  INTERVIEW. 

Pleasure,  that  comes  unlook'd-for,  is  thrice  wel- 
come; 
And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there. 
That  may  hereafter  in  a  thoughtful  hour 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  't  is  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious ;  and  the  day  it  came, 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the  cliffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 
(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice,  (125) 
Thy  voice,  Velino,  utter'd  in  the  mist) 
Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 
For  others  still  as  noon ;  and  on  we  stray'd 
From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 
Seen  up  or  down,  no  bush  or  green  or  dry,  (126) 
That  ancient  symbol  at  the  cottage-door. 
Offering  refreshment — when  Luigi  cried, 
"Well,  of  a  thousand  tracts  we  chose  the  best  I" 
And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once, 
Now  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thoroughfare 
For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch, 
Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 
Had  issued,  many  a  gipsy  and  her  brood 
Feer'd  forth,  then  housed  again — the  floor  yet  grey 


With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 
Loosely  with  locks  of  hair — I  look'd  and  saw 
What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sancho  Panza, 
Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 
His  cheeks  a  flush  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 
Unknown  before,  had  chain'd  him  to  the  spot. 
And  thou.  Sir  Knight,  hadst  traversed  hill  and  dale 
Squire-less. 

Below  and  winding  far  away, 
A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring  (127) 
Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is  high. 
The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 
The  silvery  dews.     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 
Singly  their  length  of  shadow,  chequering 
The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent  tuft.s, 
An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 
Sent  up  a  gale  of  fragrance.     Through  the  midst, 
Reflecting,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold, 
A  rainbow's  splendor  (somewhere  in  the  east 
Rain-drops  were  falling  fast)  a  rivulet 
Sported  as  loth  to  go ;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both. 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  sumpter-mule  (128) 
W^ell-laden,  while  two  menials  as  in  haste 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Viands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver. 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 
Flasks  of  delicious  wine. 

Anon  a  horn 
Blew,  through  the  champaign  bidding  to  the  feast, 
Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  address'd, 
Not  ours ;  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path, 
That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex-grove, 
Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 
Distinguished  only  by  a  fresher  verdure, 
Peasants  approach'd,  one  leading  in  a  leash 
Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various '  game, 
In  rich  confusion  slimg,  before,  behind. 
Leveret  and  quail  and  pheasant.    All  announced 
The  chase  as  over ;  and  ere-long  appear'd 
Their  horses  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb, 
For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank, 
Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 
Their  plumage  wa\-ing  as  instinct  ■v\ilh  life ; 
A  Lady  young  and  gi-aceful,  and  a  Youth, 
Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove. 
As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time, 
His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air. 
Or  fairy-vision,  such  as  feign'd  of  old. 
The  Lady,  while  her  courser  paw'd  the  ground, 
Alighted  ;  and  her  beauty,  as  she  trod 
The  enamell'd  bank,  bruising  nor  herb  nor  flower, 
That  place  illumined. 

Ah,  who  should  she  be, 
And  with  her  brother,  as  when  last  we  met, 
("When  the  first  lark  had  sung  ere  half  was  said. 
And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice, 
So  sweet  it  was,  recall'd  me  hke  a  spell) 
Who  but  Angelica  ? 

That  day  we  gave 
To  Pleasure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight. 
Another  and  another ;  hers  a  home 
Dropt  from  the  sky  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 
Loretto-like.     The  rising  moon  we  hail'd. 
Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibule 
Of  many  an  arch,  o'erwrought  and  lavishly 
With  many  a  wildering  dream  of  sylphs  and  flowers 

69 


62 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When  Raphael  and  his  school  from  Florence  came, 

Filling  the  land  with  splendor  (1^29) — nor  less  oft 

Watch'd  her,  declining,  from  a  silent  dell, 

Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 

Tasso,  Guarini,  waved  their  wizard-wands. 

Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and  lo, 

Fair  forms  appear'd,  murmuring  melodious  verse,  (130) 

— Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre. 

Mossy  the  seats,  the  stage  a  verdurous  floor. 

The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  A'ature's  own ; 

Nature  the  Architect. 

III. 

ROME. 

I  AM  in  Rome !   Oft  as  the  morning-ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry, 
Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?   What  has  befallen  me  ? 
And  from  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies. 
Thou  art  in  Rome!    A  thousand  busy  thoughts 
Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images ; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race  I 

Thou  art  in  Rome !  the  City  that  so  long 
Reign'd  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world  ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw. 
And  trembled ;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowhest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roof 'd  cabin  by  a  river-side  ?) 
Grew  into  everything ;  and,  year  by  year. 
Patiently,  fearlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea, 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise. 
Or  traveller  with  staff  and  scrip  exploring. 
But  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot,  through  hosts, 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle-array. 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell, 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  ail. 

Tliou  art  in  Rome!  the  City,  w'here  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sun-rise  through  her  open  gates, 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate. 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  Gods,  not  men : 
The  City  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude, 
And  love  of  glory,  tower'd  above  the  clouds, 
Then  fell — but,  fallhig,  kept  the  highest  seat, 
And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  woe. 
Where  now  she  dwells,  u-ithdrawn  into  the  wild. 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age, 
Her  empire  undiminish'd. 

There,  as  though 
Grandeur  attracted  Grandeur,  are  beheld 
AU  things  that  strike,  ennoble — from  the  depths 
Of  Egypt,  from  the  classic  fields  of  Greece, 
Hot  groves,  her  temples — all  things  that  inspire 
Wonder,  delight!  Who  would  not  say  the  Forms 
Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 
Flock'd  thither  to  abide  eternally, 
Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell, 
In  happy  intercourse  ?  ^^ 

And  I  am  ther&t 
Ah,  little  thought  I,  w^hen  in  school  I  sate, 
A  school-bov  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowmg  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian,  (1.31)  once  an  avenue 
Df  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces, 


Their  doors  seal'd  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead — to  turn 
Toward  Tiber,  and,  beyond  the  City-gate, 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse. 
Where  on  his  mule  1  might  have  met  so  oft 
Horace  himself  (132) — or  climb  the  Palatine, 
Dreaming  of  old  Evander  and  his  guest. 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence, 
Longwhiie  the  seat  of  Rome,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engendered  there,  so  Titan-hke)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness  ; '   and,  the  summit  gain'd. 
Inscribe  my  name  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf, 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  w^alls 
Where  Virgil  read  aloud  his  tale  divine, 
\Vhere  his  voice  faller'd,  (133)  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight ! 

But  what  a  narrow  space 
Just  underneath!    In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  though  Ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  his  utmost.    Here  and  there  appears, 
As  left  to  show  his  handy-work  not  ours. 
An  idle  column,  a  half-buried  arch, 
A  wall  of  some  great  temple. 

It  was  once. 
And  long,  the  centre  of  their  Universe,  (134) 
The  Forum — whence  a  mandate,  eagle-wing'd, 
Went  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.    Let  us  descend 
Slowly.    At  every  step  much  may  be  lost 
The  very  dust  we  tread,  stirs  as  with  life ; 
And  not  the  lightest  breath  that  sends  not  up 
Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 
Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 
In  terrible  conflict ;  this,  while  Rome  was  free. 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  Heaven !  • 

Here  the  first  Brutus  stood,  when  o'er  the  corse 
Of  her  so  chaste  all  mourn'd,  and  from  his  cloud 
Burst  hke  a  God.    Here,  holding  up  the  knife 
That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  owTi  child, 
Virginius  callM  down  vengeance. — But  whence  spoke 
They  who  harangued  the  people ;  turning  now 
To  the  twelve  tables,  (135)  now  with  lifted  hands 
To  the  Capitoline  Jove,  whose  fulgent  shape 
In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  off. 
And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount  (136) 
Seem'd  like  a  star  new-risen?    Where  were  ranged 
In  rough  array  as  on  their  element. 
The  beaks  of  those  old  galleys,  destined  still '^ 
To  brave  the  brunt  of  war — at  last  to  know 
A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death? 
All  spiritless;  from  that  disastrous  hour 
\\Tien  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,' 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break. 
Fell  on  liis  sword  ! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way 
Hither  the  Triumph  came,  and,  winding  rovmd 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopt  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appear'd. 
Then  through  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  star-bright. 
As  though  it  led  to  heaven.    'Twas  night;  but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day,  (137) 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springing  from  his  seat. 


1  Nero. 


2  The  Rostra. 


3  Marcus  Junius  Brutus 

70 


ITALY. 


63 


Went  up,  and,  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 

Enter'd  the  Capitol.     But  what  are  ihey, 

Who  at  the  foot  Avithdraw,  a  mournful  train 

In  fetters?    And  who,  yet  incredulous. 

Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons,    • 

On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see,  (138) 

Staggers  along,  the  last  ? — They  are  the  fallen. 

Those  who  were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot-wheels; 

And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides, 

The  victor  and  the  vanquish'd — tliere  withdrew ;    ■ 

He  to  the  festal-board,  and  they  to  die. 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world. 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously. 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less. 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to  look. 
To  think  that  way !    Well  might  they  in  their  state 
Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this ! 

Here  Cincinnatus  pass'd,  his  plow  the  while 
Left  in  the  furrow,  and  how  many  more. 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,  who  still  walk  the  earth, 
Consuls,  Dictators,  still  in  Curule  pomp 
Sit  and  decide  ;  and,  as  of  old  in  Rome, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds, he  whom  the  phalanx  saved  not,' 
The  last  on  Philip's  throne ;  and  the  Numidian,^ 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stript  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakedness 
Thrust  under-ground,  "  How  cold  this  bath  of  yours!" 
And  thy  proud  queen,  Palmyra,  through  the  sands  ' 
Pursued,  o'erlaken  on  her  dromedary  ; 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  away,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death,  and  escaped ;  the  Egyptian,  when  her  asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf;* 
And  Hannibal  himself;  and  she  uho  said. 
Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  iiands,='  Cl3D) 
"Tell  him  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday; 
For  then  it  had  not  been  his  nuptial  gift." 

Now  all  is  changed ;  and  here,  as  in  the  wild, 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd, 
Savage  alike;  or  they  that  would  explore, 
Discuss  and  learnedly ;  or  they  that  come, 
(And  there  are  many  who  have  cross 'd  the  earth) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation. 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves, 
"  This  was  the  Roman  Forum !" 

IV. 

A  FUNERAL. 

"  W^HENCE  this  delay?"  "Along  the  crowded  street 
A  Funeral  comes,  and  \A-ith  imtisual  pomp." 
So  I  withdrew  a  little,  and  stood  still. 
While  it  went  by.     "  She  died  as  she  deserv-ed," 
Said  an  Abate,  gathering  up  his  cloak. 
And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 
Flow'd  more  and  more. — "But  she  was  beautiful!" 


1  Perseus. 
4  Cleopatra. 


2  Jugurtha. 
5  Sophonisba. 


3  Zenobia. 


Replied  a  soldier  of  the  PontiflTs  guard. 

"And  innocent  as  beautiful !"  exclaim'd 

A  Matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 

With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not  ? 

Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  display'd 

In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke  ; 

And  I  accosted  her  to  hear  her  story. 

•'  The  stab,"  she  cried,  "  was  given  in  jealousy ; 

But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven. 

As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much  my  mind  misleads. 

When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at  dusk 

When  on  her  way  from  vespers — None  were  near. 

None  save  her  serving-boy,  who  knelt  and  wept, 

But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell — 

Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine. 

Just  by  the  fountain — that  before  the  church. 

The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidore's — 

Alas,  I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth, 

That  excellent  lady.     Ever  would  she  say^ 

Good  even,  as  she  pass'd,  and  with  a  voice 

Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven!" — But  now  by  fits 

A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assail'd  the  ear, 

A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet; 

x^nd  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appear'd ! 

Thronging,  they  came — as  from  the  shades  below ; 

All  of  a  ghostly  white  !    "  Oh  say,"  I  cried, 

"  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 

Do  Spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?    What  are  these 

That  seem  not  of  this  World,  and  mock  the  Day; 

Each  wiih  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ?" — 

"  It  is  an  ancient  Brotherhood  thou  seest. 

Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  line 

Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man  ; 

The  living  mask'd,  the  dead  alone  uncover'd. 

But  mark  " — And,  lying  on  her  funeral-couch. 

Like  one  asleep,  her  eye-lids  closed,  her  hands 

Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast. 

As  't  were  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 

She  came  at  last — and  richly,  gaily  clad. 

As  for  a  birth-day  feast !     But  breathes  she  not  ? 

A  glow  is  on  her  cheek — and  her  lips  move ! 

And  now  a  smile  is  there — how  heavenly  sweet ! 

'■  Oh  no  I"  replied  the  Dame,  wiping  her  tears, 

But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 

"  No,  she  will  never,  never  wake  again !" 

Death,  when  Ave  meet  the  spectre  in  our  walks. 
As  we  did  yesterday,  and  shall  to-morrow. 
Soon  grows  familiar — like  most  other  things, 
Seen,  not  observed  ;  but  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Changing  his  shape  to  something  new^  and  strange 
i  (And  through  the  Avorld  he  changes  as  in  sport, 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humilit}') 
Knocks  at  the  heart.     His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom, 
A  sadness  round  ;  yet  one  I  would  not  lose ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  things  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadoAvs,  where  we  live 
?»Iore  in  past  time  than  present,  where  the  ground 
League  beyond  league,  like  one  great  cemetery. 
Is  covered  o'er  Avilh  mouldering  monuments ; 
And,  let  the  living  Avander  where  they  will. 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

Oft,  Avhere  the  burial-rite  folloAvs  so  fast 
The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far, 
INIust  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child, 

71 


64 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


(Him  who  at  parting  climb'd  his  knees  and  clung) 
Clay-cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 
"  Stand,  I  conjure  ye  I" 

Seen  thus  destitute. 
What  are  the  greatest  ?    They  must  speak  beyond 
A  thousand  homilies.     When  Raphael  went, 
His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind, 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  to  and  inhabit — when  He  went. 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak,  the  cloak  he  wore. 
To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  Dome,' 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved. 
Had  worshipp'd,  following  in  his  steps  to  Fame, 
('Twas  on  an  April-day,  when  Nature  smiles) 
All  Rome  was  there.     But,  ere  the  march  began, 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came, 
Who  had  not  sought  him  ?    And  when  all  beheld 
Him,  where  he  lay,  how  changed  from  yesterday,  • 
Him  in  that  hour  cut  off,  and  at  his  head 
His  last  great  work;  (140)  when,  entering  in,  they 

look'd 
Now  on  the  dead,  then  on  that  master-piece, 
Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colorless, 
Then  on  those  forms  div-ine  that  lived  and  breathed. 
And  would  live  on  for  ages — all  were  moved  ; 
And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 

V. 
NATIONAL  PREJUDICES. 

"Another  Assassination !  This  venerable  City,"  I 
exclaimed,  "  what  is  it,  but  as  it  began,  a  nest  of 
robbers  and  murderers  ?  We  must  away  at  sun-rise, 
Luigi."  But  before  sun-rise  I  had  reflected  a  little, 
and  in  the  soberest  prose.  My  indignation  was  gone ; 
and,  when  Luigi  undrew  my  curtain,  crj'ing,  "  Up, 
Signor,  up !  The  horses  are  at  the  door." — "  Luigi,"  I 
repUcid,  "  if  thou  lovest  me,  draw  the  curtain."  ^ 

It  would  lessen  very  much  the  severity  with  which 
men  judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would  but  trace  ef- 
fects to  their  causes,  and  observe  the  progress  of 
things  in  the  moral  as  accurately  as  in  the  physical 
world.  When  we  condemn  millions  in  the  mass  as 
vindictive  and  sanguinar\',  we  should  remember  that, 
wherever  Justice  is  ill-administered,  the  injured  will 
redress  themselves.  Robbery  provokes  to  robbery ; 
murder  to  assassination.  Resentments  become  heredi- 
tary :  and  what  began  in  disorder,  ends  as  if  all  Hell 
had  broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only  by  the 
influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its  exercise  the 
passion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe  the  bad  by  the 
prospect  of  a  punishment  certain  and  well-defined, 
thoy  console  the  injured  by  the  infliction  of  that 
punishment ;  and,  as  the  infliction  is  a  public  act,  it 
excites  and  entails  no  enmity.  The  laws  are  oflfended  ; 
and  fhe  community,  for  its  owti  sake,  pursues  and 
overtakes  the  oflfender ;  often  without  the  concur- 
rence of  the  suflferer,  sometimes  against  his  wishes. 

Now  those  who  were  not  bom,  like  ourselves,  to 
such  advantages,  we  should  surely  rather  pity  than 
hate ;  and  when  at  length  they  venture  to  turn 
against  their  rulers,^  we  should  lament,  not  wonder 


1  The  Pantheon. 

2  A  dialosue,  which  is  said  to  have  passed  many  years  ago 
at  Lyons  (Mem.  de  Grammont,  I,  '3.)  and  which  may  still  be 
heard  in  almost  every  hotellerie  at  day-break. 

3  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  lately  done. 


at  their  excesses  ;  remembering  that  nations  are  nat- 
urally patient  and  long-suflfering,  and  seldom  rise  in 
rebellion  till  they  are  so  degraded  by  a  bad  govern- 
ment as  to  be  almost  incapable  of  a  good  one. 

"  Hate  them,  perhaps,"  you  may  say,  "  we  should 
not;  but  despise  them  we  must,  if  enslaved,  like  the 
people  of  Rome,  in  mind  as  well  as  body ;  if  their  re- 
ligion be  a  gross  and  barbarous  superstition." — I  re- 
spect knowledge ;  but  I  do  not  despise  ignorance. 
They  think  only  as  their  fathers  thought,  worship  as 
they  worshipped.  They  do  no  more;  and,  if  ours  had 
not  burst  their  bondage,  braving  imprisonment  and 
death,  might  not  we  at  this  very  moment  have  been 
exhibiting,  in  our  streets  and  our  churches,  the  same 
processions,  ceremonials,  and  mortifications  ? 

Nor  should  we  require  from  those  who  are  in  an 
earlier  stage  of  society,  what  belongs  to  a  later? 
They  are  only  where  we  once  were ;  and  why  hold 
them  in  derision  ?  It  is  their  business  to  cultivate  the 
inferior  arts  before  they  think  of  the  more  refined ; 
and  in  many  of  the  last  what  are  we  as  a  nation, 
when  comj)ared  to  others  that  have  passed  away? 
Unfortunately,  it  is  too  much  the  practice  of  govern- 
ments to  nurse  and  keep  alive  in  the  governed  their 
national  prejudices.  It  withdraws  their  attention  from 
what  is  passing  at  home,  and  makes  them  better  tools 
in  the  hands  of  Ambition.  Hence  next-door  neigh- 
lx)rs  are  held  up  to  us  from  our  childhood  as  natural 
enemies ;  and  we  are  urged  on  like  curs  to  worry  each 
other.' 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  be  just  to  indi- 
viduals. Who  can  say,  "In  such  circumstances  I 
should  have  done  otherwise  ?"  Who,  did  he  but  re- 
flect by  what  slow  gradations,  often  by  how  many 
strange  concurrences,  ^ve  are  led  astray;  with  how 
much  reluctance,  how  much  agony,  how  many  efl!brts 
to  escape,  how  many  self-accusations,  how  many  sighs, 
how  many  tears — Who,  did  he  but  reflect  for  a  mo- 
ment, would  have  the  heart  to  cast  a  stone  ?  For- 
tunately, these  things  are  known  to  Him,  from  whom 
no  secrets  are  hidden ;  and  let  us  rest  in  the  assu- 
rance that  /iis  judgments  are  not  as  ours  are. 

VL 

THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  ROME. 

Have  none  appeared  as  tillers  of  the  ground,  (141) 
None  since  They  went — as  though  it  still  were  theirs, 
And  they  might  come  and  claim  their  o\^•n  again  ? 
Was  the  last  plow  a  Roman's  ? 

From  this  Seat,  (142) 
Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  VirgW  sings. 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky, 
Look'd  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array,^ 


Can  it  be  believed  that  there  are  many  among  us,  who,  from  a  de- 
sire to  be  thought  superior  to  commonplace  sentiments  and  vulgar 
feelings,  affect  an  indifference  to  their  cause  I  "  If  the  Greeks," 
they  say,  "had  the  probity  of  other  nations — but  they  are  false 
to  a  proverb!"  And  is  not  falsehood  the  characteristic  of  slaves? 
Man  is  the  creature  of  circumstances.  Free,  he  has  the  quali- 
ties of  a  freeman;  enslaved,  those  of  a  slave. 

1  Candor,  generosity,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world  ;  and 
how  much  is  to  be  deplored  the  want  of  them  !  When  a  minis- 
ter in  our  parliament  consents  at  last  to  a  measure,  which,  for 
many  reasons  perhaps  existing  no  longer,  he  had  before  refused 
to  adopt,  there  should  be  no  exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no 
taunt,  no  jeer.  How  often  may  the  resistance  be  continued  lest 
an  enemy  should  triumph,  and  the  result  of  conviction  be  re- 
ceived as  a  symptom  of  fear  I 

2  JEaeid,  xii,  134. 

72 


ITALY. 


65 


Let  us  contemplate ;  and,  where  dreams  from  Jove 

Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where  perhaps 

Some  inspirations  may  be  lingering  still, 

Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  or  the  past, 

Await  their  influence;  silently  revolving 

The  changes  from  that  hour,  when  He  from  Troy 

Went  up  the  Tiber ;  when  refulgent  shields. 

No  strangers  to  the  iron-hail  of  war, 

Stream'd  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were  heard 

Amung  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was  lying, 

His  antlers  gay  with  flowers  ;  among  those  woods 

\Vhere,  by  the  Moon,  that  saw  and  yet  withdrew  not. 

Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain,  (143) 

Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  in  their  death 

Divided 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discem'd, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay  (144) 
Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power. 
Its  little  rivalships !    What  various  turns 
Of  fortune  there  ;  what  moving  accidents 
From  ambuscade  and  open  violence  ! 
Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up ;  and  hence  how  oft 
We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below, 
Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,  the  men  of  Tibur;' 
Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin, 
Some  embassy,  ascending  to  Praeneste;'^ 
How  oft  descried,  without  thy  gates,  Aricia," 
Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice, 
Senate  and  People ! — Each  a  busy  hive, 
Glowing  with  life ! 

But  all  ere-long  are  lost 
In  one.     We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 
Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 
A  City,  girt  with  battlements  and  towers. 
On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.    Round  about. 
At  rural  work,  the  Citizens  are  seen. 
None  unemploy'd ;  the  noblest  of  them  all 
Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing-floors. 
As  though  they  had  not  conquer'd.     Everj'where 
Some  trace  of  valor  or  heroic  virtue ! 
Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  Horatii,  (145) 
There  are  the  Quintian  meadows.  (146)  Here  the  hill " 
How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice. 
Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate 
Arm'd ;  and,  their  wrongs  redress'd,  at  once  gave  way. 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown  down. 
And  every  hand  upUfted,  every  heart 
Pour'd  out  in  thanks  to  Heaven. 

Once  again 
We  look ;  and,  lo.  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold  ;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glory  ;  temples,  palaces, 
Call'd  up  as  by  enchantment ;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  over-head  ; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning-sun. 
The  Imperial  City !    They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.    But  where  they  who  led  them  forth ; 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory, 
(Buckler  and  spear  hung  ujt — but  not  to  rust) 
Held  p)overty  no  evil,  no  reproach, 
Li\ing  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 
The  Decii,  the  Fabricii  ?    Where  the  spade 


1  Tivoli.       2  Palestrina.       3  La  Riccia.       4  Mons  Sacer. 
10  G 


And  reaping-hook,  among  their  household-things 
Duly  transmitted  ?    In  the  hands  of  men 
Made  captive ;  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
Reclining,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim. 
Summer  and  w inter,  through  the  circling  year, 
On  their  Falernian — in  the  hands  of  men 
Dragg'd  into  slaverj',  with  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle. 
In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
To  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  to  sink, 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear, 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 

But  their  days, 
Their  hours  are  number'd.    Hark,  a  yell,  a  shriek, 
A  barbarous  dissonance,  loud  and  yet  louder. 
That  echoes  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea ! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud, 
The  battle  moving  onward  !    Had  they  slain 
All,  that  the  Earth  should  from  her  womb  bring  forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them  ?    From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore, 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice,  as  though  in  ice 
Engender'd,  multiplied,  they  pour  along. 
Shaggy  and  huge  !    Host  after  host,  they  come ; 
The  Goth,  the  V^andal ;  and  again  the  Goth ! 

Once  more  we  look,  and  all  is  still  as  night, 
All  desolate !    Groves,  temples,  palaces. 
Swept  from  the  sight,  and  nothing  visible. 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapors  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accuret,  save  here  and  there 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  dismember'd  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  City  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crown'd 
With  many  a  cross ;  but  they,  that  issue  forth, 
Wander  like  strangers  who  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
Caesar  and  Cato,  and  men  more  than  kings. 
We  meet,  none  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 

VII. 
THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS. 
Those  ancient  men,  what  were  they,  who  achieved 
A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors ; 
Setting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings. 
And,  through  the  world,  subduing,  chaining  down 
The  free  immortal  spirit  ?    Were  they  not 
Mighty  magicians  ?  Theirs  a  wondrous  spell, 
Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 
Close-interwoven  ;  where  together  met 
Blessings  and  curses,  threats  and  promises ; 
And  with  the  terrors  of  Futurity 
Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates. 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric  (147) 
And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible !  (148) 
What  in  his  day  the  Syracusan  sought, 
Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on, 
They  had  ;  and,  having  it,  like  gods,  not  men. 
Moved   this   world    at    their   pleasure.     Ere   they 

came,  (149) 
Their  shadows,  stretching  far  and  wide,  were  known 
And  Two,  that  look'd  beyond  the  visible  sphere. 
Gave  notice  of  their  coming — he  who  saw 

73 


66 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Apocalypse  ;  and  he  of  elder  time, 
Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 
Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.     Distant  as  they  were, 
Weil  might  those  holy  men  be  fiU'd  with  fear! 

vin. 

CAIUS  CESTIUS. 

When  I  am  inclined  to  be  serious,  I  love  to  w^an- 
der  up  and  dowii  before  the  tomb  of  Caius  Cestius 
The  Protestant  burial-ground  is  there ;  and  most  of 
the  little  monuments  are  erected  lo  the  young;  yoimg 
men  of  promise,  cut  off  when  on  their  travels,  fall 
of  enthusiasm,  full  of  enjoyment ;  brides,  in  the  bloom 
of  their  beauty,  on  their  first  journey ;  or  children 
home  from  home  in  search  of  health.  This  stone  was 
placed  by  his  fellow-travellers,  yo\mg  as  himself,  who 
will  return  to  the  house  of  his  parents  without  him ; 
that,  by  a  husband  or  a  father,  now  in  Ids  native 
country.     His  heart  is  buried  in  that  grave. 

It  is  a  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  covered  in  the 
winter  with  violets;  and  the  Pyramid,  that  over- 
shadows it,  gives  it  a  classical  and  singularly  solemn 
air.  You  feel  an  interest  there,  a  sympathy  you 
were  not  prepared  for.  You  are  yourself  in  a  foreign 
land ;  and  they  are  for  the  most  part  your  country- 
men. They  call  upon  j'ou  in  your  mother-tongue — 
in  English — in  words  unknown  to  a  native,  known 
only  to  yourselves  :  and  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  that  old 
majestic  pile,  has  this  also  in  common  with  them.  It 
is  itself  a  stranger,  among  strangers.  It  has  stood 
there  till  the  language  spoken  round  about  it  has 
changed ;  and  the  shepherd,  born  at  the  foot,  can  read 
its  inscription  no  longer. 

IX. 

THE  KUN. 

'T  IS  over ;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow — there,  alas,  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death ; 
Hers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  walls, 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'Tis  over;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head — 
No  rocket,  bursting  in  the  midnight-sky. 
So  dazzling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes, 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there. 
Still  in  her  father's  house ;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,  nought  through  the  gloom  discern'd, 
Nought  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary. 
And  the  grey  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell, 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration, 
And  from  the  latticed  galleiy  came  a  chaunt 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical,  (150) 
Verse  after  verse  sung  out,  hoAv  holily! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her. 
And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross ; 


Yet  was  it  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed. 

Came  like  a  dirge.    WTien  her  fair  head  was  shorn, 

And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid, 

T  hat  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying,  "  Thus. 

Thus  I  renomice  the  world  and  worldly  things !" 

When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 

W^ere,  one  by  one,  removed,  even  to  the  last, 

That  she  might  say,  flinging  them  from  her,  "  Tlius, 

Thus  I  renounce  the  world!"  when  all  was  changed 

And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  luielt, 

Veil'd  in  her  veil,  crown'd  with  her  silver  crown, 

Her  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 

Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 

Fail  in  that  hour !  Well  might  the  holy  man. 

He,  at  w  hose  feet  she  luielt,  give  as  by  stealtli 

('T  was  in  her  utmost  need ;  nor,  w  hile  she  lives,  (151) 

Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 

That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  tliat  smile  of  love 

And  pity ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled  ; 
And  they,  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dress'd  for  sacrifice. 
Are  mingling  in  the  world ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  Teresa.     Yet,  among  them  all. 
None  were  so  form'd  to  loAe  and  to  be  loved. 
None  to  dehght,  adorn ;  and  on  thee  now 
A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropp'd 
For  ever !    In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 
To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud. 
Those  of  a  wife,  a  molher;  leaving  there 
A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 
A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 
Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till  Death 
Comes  to  release  thee.    Ah,  what  now  to  thee, 
What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  Youth  ? 
As  nothing ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 
Calmly;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse, 
That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return, 
The  monstrous  birth  of  one  eventful  day. 
Troubling  thy  spirit — from  the  first,  at  dawn, 
The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast, 
To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem.  (152) 

All  in  turn 
Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 
Hover,  uncall'd.    The  young  and  innocent  heart, 
How  is  it  beating  ?    Has  it  no  regrets  ? 
Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there  ? 
But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 
Peace  to  thy  slumbers ! 


THE  FIRE-FLY. 

There  is  an  Insect,  that,  when  Evening  comes, 
Small  though  he  be  and  scarce  distinguishable. 
Like  Evening  clad  in  soberest  livery. 
Unsheathes  Ins  wings,  (153)  and  through  the  woods 

and  glades 
Scatters  a  marvellous  splendor     On  he  wheels, 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy,  (154). 
Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstacy ; 
Nor  unaccompanied  ;  thousands  that  fling 
A  radiance  all  their  own,  not  of  the  day, 
Thousands  as  bright  as  he,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 


74 


ITALY. 


67 


Soaring,  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap  ' 

Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon ;  (155) 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance  (156) 
By  brook  or  fountain-side,  in  many  a  braid 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair,  well  may  she  crj', 
"  Come  hither  ;  and  the  shepherds,  gathering  round, 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  Night, 
Spangling  her  head  ■v\"ith  stars." 

Oft  have  I  met 
This  shining  race,  when  in  the  Tusculan  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmer'd ;  oft  among 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green,  (157) 
That  yet  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  Rome 
Over  the  Alban  lake  ;  oft  met  and  hail'd, 
Where  the  precipitate  Anio  thunders  down, 
And  through  the  surging  mist  a  Poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  I)  (158) 
Reveals  itself. 

Yet  cannot  I  forget 
Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve, 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 
And  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still, 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightly  in  bush  or  brake 
His  lonely  lamp  rekindling.'    Unlike  theirs. 
His,  if  less  dazzling,  through  the  darkness  knows 
No  intermission ;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and  clear 
As  Virtue's  own. 

XI. 

FOREIGN  TRAITL. 

It  was  in  a  splenetic  humor  that  I  sate  me  down  to 
my  scanty  fare  at  Terracina  ;  and  how  long  I  should 
have  contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in  array  beibre 
me,  I  cannot  sa}^  if  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that  drew  the 
tears  into  my  eyes,  had  not  burst  from  the  green  and 
leafy  boughs  on  the  hearth-stone.  "  Why,"  1  exclaim- 
ed, starting  up  from  the  table,  "  why  did  I  leave  my 
own  chimney-corner  ? — But  am  I  not  on  the  road  to 
Brundusium  ?  And  are  not  these  the  very  calamities 
that  befell  Horace  and  Virgil,  and  Maecenas,  and  Plo- 
tius,  and  Varius  ?  Horace  laughed  at  them — then 
why  should  not  I  ?  Horace  resolved  to  turn  them,  to 
accoimt ;  and  Virgil — cannot  we  hear  him  observing, 
that  to  remember  them  will,  by  and  by,  be  a  pleasure?" 
My  soliloquy  reconciled  me  at  once  to  my  fate  ;  and 
when,  for  the  twentieth  time,  I  had  looked  through 
the  window  on  a  sea  sparkling  with  innumerable 
brilliants,  a  sea  on  which  the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey 
and  the  Eneid  had  sailed,  I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid 
banquet.  My  thrushes  had  the  flavor  of  ortolans  ;  and 
I  ate  with  an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before. 

"  Who,"  I  cried,  as  I  poured  out  my  last  glass  of 
Falernian,^  (for  Falernian  it  was  said  to  be,  and  in  my 
eyes  it  ran  bright  and  clear  as  a  topaz-stone) — "  who 
would  remain  at  home,  could  he  do  otherwise  ?  Who 
would  submit  to  tread  that  dull,  but  daily  round  ;  his 
hours  forgotten  as  soon  as  spent  ?"  and,  opening  my 
journal-book  and  dipping  my  pen  into  my  ink-horn, 
I  determined,  as  far  as  I  could,  to  justify  myself  and 
ray  countrymen  in  wandering  over  the  face  of  the 


1  The  glow-worm. 

2  We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania  Felix. 
On  the  color  and  flavor  of  Falernian,  consult  Galen  and  Dios- 
corides. 


earth.    "  It  may  serve  me,"  said  I,  "  as  a  remedy  in 
some  future  fit  of  the  spleen." 

Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers ; '  and  no  wonder, 
when  the  elerrients,  air,  water,  fire,  attend  at  our  bid 
ding,  to  transport  us  from  shore  to  shore ;  when  the 
ship  rushes  into  the  deep,  her  track  the  foam  as  of 
some  mighty  torrent ;  and,  in  three  houi-s  or  less,  we 
stand  gazing  and  gazed  at  among  a  foreign  people. 
None  want  an  excuse.  If  rich,  they  go  to  enjoy,  if 
poor,  to  retrench  ;  if  sick,  to  recover ;  if  studious,  to 
learn ;  if  learned,  to  relax  from  their  studies. ,  But 
whatever  they  may  say,  Avhalever  they  may  believe, 
they  go  for  the  most  part  on  the  same  errand ;  nor 
will  those  who  rellect,  think  that  errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over-anxious.  No  sooner  do  they 
enter  the  world,  than  they  lose  that  taste  for  natural 
and  simple  pleasures,  so  remarkable  in  early  hfe. 
Every  hour  do  they  ask  themselves  what  progress 
they  have  made  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or  honor  ; 
and  on  they  go  as  their  fathers  went  before  them,  till, 
weary  and  sick  at  heart,  they  look  back  with  a  sigh 
of  regret  to  the  golden  time  of  their  childhood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particularly, 
restores  to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we  have  lost. 
When  the  anchor  is  heaved,  we  double  down  the  leaf; 
and  for  a  while  at  least  all  effort  is  over.  The  old 
cares  are  left  clustering  round  the  old  objects  ;  and  at 
every  step,  as  we  proceed,  the  shghtest  circumstance 
amuses  and  interests.  All  is  new  and  strange.  We 
surrender  ourselves,  and  feel  once  again  as  cliildren. 
Like  them,  we  enjoy  eagerly;  like  them,  w  hen  we  fret, 
we  fret  only  for  the  moment ;  and  here  indeed  the  re- 
semblance is  very  remarkable,  for  if  a  journey  has  its 
pains  as  well  as  its  pleasures  (and  there  is  nothing  un- 
mixed in  this  w  orld)  the  pains  are  no  sooner  over  than 
they  are  forgotten,  while  the  pleasures  live  long  in 
the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  sm-ely  without  another  advantage.  If  life 
be  short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days  and  its 
hours.  When  the  blood  slumbers  in  the  veins,  how 
often  do  we  wish  that  the  earth  would  turn  faster  on 
its  axis,  that  the  sun  would  rise  and  set  before  it  does, 
and,  to  escape  from  the  weight  of  time,  how  many 
follies,  how  many  crimes  are  committed !  Men  rush 
on  danger,  and  even  on  death.  Intrigue,  play,  foreign 
and  domestic  broil,  such  are  their  resources ;  and, 
when  these  things  fail,  they  destroy  themselves. 

Now  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and  inno- 
cently. We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  adventures ; 
and  many  are  those  that  occur  to  us,  morning,  noon, 
and  night.  The  day  we  come  to  a  place  w  hich  we 
have  long  heard  and  read  of,  and  in  Italy  we  do  so 
continually,  it  is  an  era  in  our  lives ;  and  from  that 
moment  the  very  name  calls  up  a  picture.  How  de- 
lightfully too  does  the  knowledge  flow  in  upon  us, 
and  how  fast!^    Would  he  who  sat  in  a  corner  of 


1  As  indeed  italways  was,  contributing  those  of  every  deeree, 
from  a  milors  with  his  suite  to  him  whose  only  attendant  is  hig 
shadow.  Coryate  in  1603  performed  his  journey  on  foot;  and, 
returning,  hung  up  his  shoes  in  his  village  church  as  an  ex-voto 
Goldsmith,  a  century  and  a  half  afterwards,  followed  in  nearly 
the  same  path  ;  playing  a  tune  on  hie  tlute  to  procure  admit 
tance,  whenever  he  approached  a  cottage  at  night-fall. 

2  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw  oui 
eyes  on  the  markets  and  the  fields.  If  the  markets  are  well 
supplied,  the  fields  well-cultivated,  all  is  right.  If  otherwise, 
we  may  say,  and  say  truly,  these  people  are  barbarous  or  op 


75 


C8 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS- 


liis  library,  poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn  more 
or  so  much  in  the  time,  as  he  who,  with  his  eyes  and 
his  heart  open,  is  receiving  impressions,  all  day  long, 
from  the  things  themselves  ?'  How  accurately  do  they 
arrange  themselves  in  our  memory,  towns,  rivers, 
mountains  ;  and  in  what  living  colors  do  we  recall 
the  dresses,  mamiers,  and  customs  of  the  people  !  Our 
sight  is  the  noblest  of  all  our  senses.  "  It  fills  the 
mind  with  most  ideas,  converses  with  its  objects  at 
the  greatest  distance,  and  continues  longest  in  action 
without  being  tired."  Our  sight  is  on  the  alert  when 
we  travel ;  and  its  exercise  is  then  so  delightful,  that 
we  forget  the  profit  in  the  pleasure. 

Like  a  river,  that  gathers,  that  refines  as  it  runs, 
like  a  spring  that  takes  its  course  through  some  rich 
vein  of  mineral,  we  improve  and  imperceptibly — nor 
in  the  head  only,  but  in  the  heart.  Our  prejudices 
leave  us,  one  by  one.  Seas  and  m.ountains  are  no 
longer  our  boundaries.  We  learn  to  love,  and  esteem,  | 
and  admire  beyond  them.  Oiu-  benevolence  extends 
itself  with  our  Imowledge.  And  must  we  not  return 
better  citizens  than  we  went?  For  the  more  we 
become  acquainted  with  the  institutions  of  other 
countries,  the  more  highly  must  we  value  our  owti. 


I  threw  do-\^-n  my  pen  in  triumph.  "  The  question," 
said  I,  "  is  set  to  rest  for  ever.    And  yet — " 

"And  yet — "  I  must  still  say.  The  v,isest  of  men 
seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  Athens;  and  for  that 
worst  of  e\'ils,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  to  which  we  j 
are  most  liable  when  most  at  our  ease,  is  there  not 
after  all  a  surer  and  yet  pleasanter  remedy,  a  remedy 
for  which  we  have  only  to  cross  the  threshold  ?  A 
Piedmontese  nobleman,  into  whose  company  I  fell  at 
Turin,  had  not  long  before  experienced  its  efficacy : 
and  his  stor\%  which  he  told  me  without  reserve, 
was  as  follows. 

"  I  was  weary  of  life,  and,  after  a  day,  such  as  few 
have  known  and  none  would  wish  to  remember,  was 
hurrying  along  the  street  to  the  river,  when  I  felt  a 
sudden  check.  I  turned  and  beheld  a  little  boy,  who 
had  cauglii  the  skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his  anxiety  to 
solicit  my  notice.  His  look  and  manner  were  irre- 
sistible.  Xot  less  so  was  the  lesson  he  had  learnt. 

"  '  There  are  six  of  us  ;  and  we  are  dying  for  want 
of  food.' — '  Why  should  I  not,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  re- 
lieve this  WTetched  family?  I  have  the  means;  and 
it  will  not  delay  me  many  minutes.  But  what,  if  it 
does  ?'  The  scene  of  misery  he  conducted  me  to,  I 
cannot  describe.  I  threw  them  my  purse ;  and  their 
burst  of  gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my  eyes — 
it  went  as  a  cordia^  to  my  heart.  '  I  will  call  again 
to-morrow,'  I  cried.  '  Fool  that  I  was,  to  think  of  | 
leaving  a  world,  where  such  pleasure  was  to  be  had 
and  so  cheaply  I'  " 

xn. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 

It  was  a  well 
Ot  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry ; 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief. 


1  Assuredly  not,  if  the  last  has  laid  a  proper  foundation. 
Knowledge  makes  knowledge  as  money  makes  money,  nor  ever 
perhaps  so  fast  as  on  a  journey. 


Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honor'd  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  fiU'd,  overflowed  it ; 
Th  .n  dash'd  away,  playing  the  prodigal. 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing  unseen,  unheard. 
Through  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  roots 
Of  aged  trees ;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.   Overcome  with  heat, 
I  tlirew  me  down ;  admiring,  as  I  la'. , 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing-place  for  birds, 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angdits ;  and  now  approach'd 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village-gossip  there. 
The  hour  Rebekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.    Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appear'd, 
Appear'd  and  vanished,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.   It  calFd  up  the  day 
Uh'sses  landed  there  ;  and  long  I  gazed, 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time.  (159) 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever. 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.    Stopping  there, 
She  join'd  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink ; 
And,  while  he  quench'd  liis  thirst,  standing  on  tiptoe. 
Look'd  do\^^l  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile. 
Nor  stirr"d  till  he  had  done,  fix'd  as  a  statue. 

Then  hr.dst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  Canova, 
Thou  hadst  endow'd  them  with  immortal  youth ; 
And  they  had  evermore  lived  undivided, 
Wirming  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fairest, 

xin. 

BANDITTI. 

'T  IS  a  wild  life,  fearful  and  full  of  change, 
The  mountain-robber's.    On  the  watch  he  lies, 
Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger ; 
And,  w"hen  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 

Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest; 
When  thoy  that  robb'd,  were  men  of  better  faith  (160) 
Than  kings  or  pontifl«,  when,  such  reverence 
The  Poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wilds, 
A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare, 
Crying  aloud,  "  Hence  to  the  distant  liills ! 
Tasso  approaches  ;  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours  ;  whose  sorcery 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest-glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armory, 
Our  mountain-caves  to  regal  palaces. 
Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  and  his  are  gone. 
Let  him  fear  nothing." 

"When  along  the  shore,  (161"« 
And  by  the  path  that,  wandering  on  its  way. 
Leads  through  the  fetal  grove  where  Tullv  fell 

76 


ITALY. 


69 


^rey  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tomb  is  there), 

He  came  and  they  withdrew :  they  were  a  race 

Careless  of  Hfe  in  others  and  themselves, 

For  they  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp ; 

But  not  ungenerous.    'T  is  no  longer  so. 

Now  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  ere  they  slay 

The  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 

Mocking  misfortune  ;  vaih,  fantastical, 

Wearing  whatever  glitters  in  the  spoil ; 

And  most  devout,  though  when  they  kneel  and  pray, 

With  every  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder. 

As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array,  (162) 

As  by  a  spell  they  vanish — theirs  a  band, 

Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 

As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  coltage-door 

Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting ; 

Now  in  the  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 

Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men 

Whose  names  on  innocent  Ups  are  words  of  fear, 

Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit. 

Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence, 
Lurk,  night  and  day,  the  plague-spot  visible. 
The  guilt  that  says,  Beware  ;  and  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  couches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge-foot,  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scoop'd  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb. 
Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 
Slunk  as  he  enter'd.    There  he  broods,  in  spleen 
Gnawing  his  beard  ;  his  rough  and  sine\\y  frame 
O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life : 
On  his  wan  cheek  a  sabre-cut,  well-earn'd 
In  foreign  warfare  ;  on  his  breast  the  brand 
Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 
He  clank'd  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  more 
Dragg'd  ignominiously ;  on  every  limb 
Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame. 
Stripes  of  the  lash  and  honorable  scars. 
And  channels  here  and  there  worn  to  the  bone 
By  galling  fetters. 

He  comes  slowly  forth, 
Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savage  dell 
Anxiously  looks ;  liis  cruise,  an  ample  gourd 
(Duly  replenish'd  from  the  vintner's  cask). 
Slung  from  his  shoulder ;  in  his  breadlh  of  belt 
Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  uncteansed, 
A  parchment  scravvl'd  with  uncouth  characters, 
And  a  small  vial,  his  last  remedy. 
His  cure,  when  all  things  fail.    No  noise  is  heard, 
Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 
Leaps  in  the  gulf  beneath — But  now  he  kneels 
And  (like  a  scout  when  listening  to  the  tramp 
Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 
Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores, 
Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifle-gun 
Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. 

Two  Monks, 
Portly,  grey-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds. 
Descend  where  yet  a  mouldering  cross  o'erhangs 
The  grave  of  one  that  from  the  precipice 
Fell  in  an  evil  hour.     Their  bridle-bells 
Ring  merrily;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 
Re-echoes ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  lost. 
Unconscious  of  the  good  in  store  below. 
The  holy  fathers  have  tum'd  off,  and  now 

62 


Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere-long  to  wag  their  beards 
Before  my  lady-abbess,  and  discuss 
Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 
O'er  her  spiced  bowl — then  shrive  the  sisterhood, 
Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 
In  the  confessional. 

He  moves  his  lips 
As  with  a  curse — then  paces  up  and  dowTi, 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on , 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  the  past,  the  future. 

But  hark,  the  nimble  tread  of  numerous  feet ! 
— 'Tis  but  a  dappled  herd,  come  down  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  the  cool  wave.  He  turns  and  aims- 
Then  checks  himself,  unwilling  to  disturb 
The  sleeping  echoes. 

Once  again  he  earths ; 
Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath, 
His  old  companions  in  that  hiding-place, 
Thfe  bat,  the  toad,  the  blind-worm,  and  the  newt ; 
And  hark,  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident. 
As  of  a  man  in  haste.     Nearer  it  draws  ; 
And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 
Ha !  't  is  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 
The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. 

\Vho  wants 
A  sequel,  m.ay  read  on.    The  unvamish"d  tale, 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 
'T  was  told  me  by  the  Marquis  of  Ravina, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  shelter'd  me 
In  that  brave  castle  of  his  ancestors 
O'er  Garigliano,  and  is  such  indeed 
As  every  day  brings  with  it — in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on,  and  lawless  men 
Walk  in  the  sun ;  but  it  should  not  be  lost, 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  coimtry. 

XIV. 

AN  ADVENTURE. 

Three  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate,  (163> 
Then  sprung  and  led  me  captive.     Many  a  wild 
We  traversed  ;  but  Rusconi,  't  was  no  less, 
March'd  by  my  side,  and,  when  I  thirsted,  climb'd 
The  cliffs  for  water ;  though,  whene'er  he  spoke, 
'T  was  briefly,  sullenly;  and  on  he  led, 
Dislinguish'd  only  by  an  amulet. 
That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 
A  crj'slal  of  rare  virtue.     Night  fell  fast. 
When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable, 
He  tum'd  and  bade  ,them  halt.  'T  was  where  the  earth 
Heaves  o'er  the  dead — where  erst  some  Alaric 
Fought  his  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  threw 
A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square, 
Stretch'd  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending. 
That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Cover'd  us  round  ;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood. 
Weary  and  faint,  and  face  to  face  with  one, 
Whose  voice,  whose  look  dispenses  life  and  death, 
Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled,  and  the  Bandit  spoke. 
"  I  know  thee.    Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the  sport 
Slipping  thy  blood-hotmds  with  a  hunter's  cry , 

77 


70 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thou  hast  found  at  last.     Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours, 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight-spectacle, 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better — how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.     If  thy  ransom  comes. 
Thou  livest.     If  not — but  answer  not,  I  pray. 
Lest  thou  provoke  me.     I  may  strike  thee  dead ; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.     Write,  and  thus." — 

I  wrote.    "  'T  is  well,"  he  cried.    "A  peasant-boy, 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence. 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.    This  cloak  of  mine 
Will  serve  thee ;  it  has  weather'd  many  a  storm." 
The  watch  was  set ;  and  twice  it  had  been  changed, 
WTien  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  hawk. 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.     I  look'd  up. 
And  all  were  gone,  save  him  who  now  kept  guard, 
And  on  his  arms  lay  musing.    Young  he  seem'd, 
And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 
Some  secret  sorrow.  *'Thou  shrink'st  back,"  he  said. 
"  Well  may'st  thou,  lying,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 
A  ruffian — one  for  ever  link'd  and  bound 
To  guilt  and  infamy.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deem'd  unworthy, 
When  he  had  watch'd  that  planet  to  its  setting, 
And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  meanest  thing 
That  Nature  has  given  birth  to.     Now  't  is  past. 

"Wouldst  thou  know  more  ?  My  story  is  an  old  one. 
I  loved,  was  sccrn'd  ;  I  trusted,  was  betray'd  ; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity. 
Met  with  the  fiend,  the  tempter — in  Rusconj. 
'  Why  thus  ?'  he  cried.    '  Thou  wouldst  be  free,  and 

darest  not. 
Come  and  assert  thy  birth-right  while  thou  canst 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  dungeon ; 
And  death  itself,  what  is  it  at  the  worst. 
What,  but  a  harlequin's  leap  ?'    Him  I  had  known. 
Had  served  with,  suffer'd  with ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  Capua,  while  the  moon  went  dowTi,  I  swore 
Allegiance  on  his  dagger. . 

Dost  thou  ask 
How  I  have  kept  my  oath  ?    Thou  shalt  be  told. 
Cost  what  it  may. — But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grant  me  a  passport  to  some  distant  land, 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  will,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  ago, 
When  on  a  vineyard-hill  we  lay  corceal'd 
And  scattered  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont, 
I  heard  a  damsel  singing  to  herself, 
And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone, 
In  her  first  beauty      Up  a  path  she  came 
Leafy  and  mtricate,  singing  her  song, 
A  song  of  love,  by  snatches  ;  breaking  off 
If  but  a  flower,  an  insect  in  the  sun 
Pleased  for  an  instant ;  then  as  carelessly 
The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 
Rising  on  tiptoe  underneath  the  boughs 
To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 
Her  look,  her  mien  and  maiden-ornaments 
Show'd  gentle  birth  ;  and,  step  by  step,  she  came 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dreadful  snare. 


None  else  were  by ;  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen, 

Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  gaiety 

Went  to  my  heart;  and,  starting  up,  I  cried, 

'  Fl}' — for  your  life !'    Alas,  she  shriek'd,  she  fell ; 

And,  as  I  caught  her  falling,  all  rush'd  forth. 

'  A  Wood-njmph  I'  said  Rusconi.     *  By  the  light, 

Lovely  as  Hebe !    Lay  her  in  the  shade.' 

I  heard  him  not.     I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

'  What,'  he  exclaim'd  with  a  malicious  smile, 

'  Wouldst  thou  rebel  ?'    I  did  as  hu  required. 

'  Now  bear  her  hence  to  the  well-head  below. 

A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 

Go!  'T  is  an  office  all  will  envy  thee  ; 

But  thou  hast  earn'd  it.' 

As  I  stagger'd  down, 
Unwilling  to  surrender  her  sweet  body ; 
Her  golden  hair  dishevell'd  on  a  neck 
Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep. 
Frantic  with  love,  with  liate,  '  Great  God !'  I  cried 
(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray) 
'  Why  may  I  not,  while  yet — while  yet  I  can. 
Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death  ?' 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said.     I  kiss'd  her  brow 
And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.     A  short  cry 
She  uttcr'd,  but  she  stirred  not ;  and  to  heaven 
Her  gentle  spirit  fled.    'T  was  where  the  path 
In  its  descent  turn'd  suddenly.     No  eye 
Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following  fast. 
But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 
Levell'd  their  deadly  aim.    Then  I  had  ceased 
To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 
(Would  I  v.ere  there!)  been  slumbering  in  my  grave 
Had  not  Rusconi  with  a  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaim'd. 
Grasping  my  arm,  '  'T  is  bravely,  nobly  done! 
Is  ft  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  sword  ? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  earnest  upon? 
— But  't  is  his  first  offence,  and  let  it  pass. 
Like  the  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood, 
And  may  do  much  hereafter.     He  can  strike 
Home  to  the  hilt,'    Then  in  an  under-tone, 
'  Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave, 
When  in  the  eyes  of  all  I  read  distrust  ? 
For  once,'  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue,  '  I  will  save  thee,  Albert ; 
Again,  I  cannot.'  '^ 

Ere  his  tale  was  told. 
As  on  the  lieath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came  ; 
And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 
Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 
— But  the  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in  need 
Of  rest.    The  young  Antonio,  with  his  torch, 
Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

XV. 

NAPLES. 

This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.' 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven  ?    Not  a  grove, 
Citron,  or  pine,  or  cedar,  not  a  grot 
Sea-worn  and  mantled  with  the  gadding  vine. 
But  breathes  enchantment.     Not  a  cliff  but  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight. 
Some  cabin-roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 

1  Un  pezzo  di  cielo  caduto  in  tensi. —Sannazaro. 

78 


ITALY. 


71 


Sonife  ruin'd  temple  or  fallen  monument, 

To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by, 

And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide, 

From  day-break,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire 

Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain-top, 

Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends. 

Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  Ararat, 

When  he,  the  Patriarch,  who  escaped  the  Flood, 

Was  with  his  household  sacrincing  there — 

From  day-break  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best, 

When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing-boats  come  forth, 

Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow. 

And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening-h}-]!^ 

Steals  o'er  the  tremblmg  waters. 

Everj-where 
Fable  and  Truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry. 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.     Fable  came, 
And  laugh'd  and  smig,  arraying  Truth  in  flowers. 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came ; 
Earth,  sea  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colors  not  their  own : 
And  at  her  bidding,  lo!  a  dark  descent 
To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields. 
Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  described,' 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  record  ^ 

What  they  reveal'd,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 
Beloved  Parthenope. 

Yet  here,  methinks. 
Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 
Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love, 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstacy, 
And  soberest  meditation. 

Here  the  vines 
Wed,  each  her  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
Hang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  chequering 
The  sunshine  ;  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall, 
And  the  mild  moon  her  fairy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute,  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly ;  and  the  dance  ^  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love. 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquish'd,  and  the  maid. 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace. 
Nature's  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  Monarch  underneath. 
He  in  his  palace  of  fire,  diflfuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendor      Here,  unseen,  unheard, 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild. 
He  works  his  wonders ;  save,  when  issuing  forth 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky, 
And,  minglinff  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn, 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low. 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  b'.irning  lake, 
And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth, 
What  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival, 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 
The  sleep  of  ages — till  a  plow,  a  spade 
Disclose  the  secret,  and  the  eve  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons, 
Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  gay  attire, 


1  Virgil. 


2  The  Tarantella. 


And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round. 
And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along, 
We  may  contemplate  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  Cumsean  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt ;  and  here  thy  groves 
Delicious  BaifB.    Here  (what  would  they  not  ?) 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  hi  the  sea ;  and  now^  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmering, 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
The  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces  ; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change, 
Save  when  the  sea-mew  clamors,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

VPci^X  the  mountainous  Isle,* 
Seen  in  the  South  ?    'T  is  where  a  Monster  dwelt,^ 
\V'ho  hurl'd  his  victims  from  the  topmost  cliff; 
Then  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow, 
So  subtle  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  fear'd  he  lived,  cursing  and  cursed; 
And  still  the  dungeons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 
Darkness,  distemper. — Strange,  that  one  so  vile 
Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the  world 
Should,  where  withdra\\-n  in  his  decrepitude. 
Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 
"  Go  from  the  earth !"  and  from  the  earth  they  went. 
Yet  such  things  were — and  will  be,  when  mankind, 
Losing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy ; 
And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty. 
Trodden  down  and  trampled. 

Let  us  turn  the  prow, 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,^  (164) 
Travei-se  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place,"'' 
Immovable,  nor  asking,  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone,  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn!  At  the  fount. 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and  look'd, 
('Twas  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa), 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  follow'd,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  Pompeii,  sought  in  vain ; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray. 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced, 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  lor  centuries. 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side. 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urns. 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.    Full  and  clear, 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  reveal'd 
The  name  of  even'  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Siiining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre. 
And  lighting  up  this  City  of  the  Dead. 

Here  lived  a  miller ;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  mill-stones  now.     In  old  companionship 
Still  do  they  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went. 
Each  ready  for  its  office — but  he  comes  not. 
And  here,  hard  by,  (where  one  in  idleness 


1  CapreiE. 

3  The  Elder  Pliny. 


2  Tiberius. 
4  Pompeii. 

79 


72 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Has  stopt  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man ; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  w^e  read 
Of  shows  ere-long  to  be)  a  sculptor  A\Toiight, 
Nor  meanly ;  blocks,  half-chisell'd  into  life, 
Waiting  his  call.     Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive-merchant  drew 
From  many  an  ample  jar,  no  more  replenish'd  ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath. 
They  sate  and  quaflT'd,  and  look'd  on  ihem  that  pass'd, 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  Rome. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold-stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy,  so  sacred  once. 
Hail !    At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And  lo,  a  fairy  palace  !  everywhere, 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance. 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 
And  columns  clustering  in  Patrician  splendor. 
But  hark,  a  footstep !    May  we  not  iiltrude  ? 
And  now,  metliinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse ! 
— And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly, 
And  now — along  the  corridor  it  comes — 
I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths ! 
— Ah,  no,  'tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense, 
Idle  and  vain !    We  are  but  where  we  were  ; 
Still  wandering  in  a  City  of  the  Dead ! 

XVI. 
THE  BAG  OF  GOLD. 

I  DINE  very  often  with  the  good  old  Cardinal  *** 
and,  I  should  add,  with  his  cats ;  for  they  always  sit 
at  his  table,  and  are  much  the  gravest  of  the  com- 
pany. His  beaming  countenance  makes  us  forget  his 
age ;  nor  did  I  ever  see  it  clouded  till  yesterday, 
when,  as  we  were  contemplating  the  sun-set  from  his 
terrace,  he  happened,  in  the  course  of  our  conversa- 
tion, to  allude  to  an  affecting  circumstance  in  his 
early  life. 

He  had  just  left  the  University  of  Palermo  and 
was  entering  the  army,  when  he  became  acquainted 
with  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  merit,  a 
Sicilian  of  a  family  as  illustrious  as  his  own.  Lixing 
near  each  other,  they  were  often  together;  and,  at 
an  age  like  theirs,  friendship  soon  turns  to  love.  But 
his  father,  for  what  reason  I  forget,  refused  his  con- 
sent to  their  union ;  till,  alarmed  at  the  declining 
health  of  his  son,  he  promised  to  oppose  it  no  longer, 
if,  after  a  separation  of  three  years,  they  continued 
as  much  in  love  as  ever. 

Relying  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on  a 
long  journey,  but  in  my  absence  the  usual  arts  were 
resorted  to.  Our  letters  were  intercepted ;  and  false 
rumors  were  spread — first  of  my  indifference,  then 
of  my  inconstancy,  tlien  of  my  marriage  with  a  rich 
heiress  of  Sienna;  and,  when  at  length  I  returned 
to  make  her  my  own,  I  found  her  in  a  convent  of 
Ursuline  Nuns.  She  had  taken  the  veil ;  and  I,  said 
he  with  a  sigh — w  hat  else  remained  for  me  ? — I  went 
into  the  church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the  conver- 
Bation,  very  many  have  been  happy  though  we  were 
not;  and,  if  I  nm  not  abusing  an  old  man's  privilege, 
let  me  tell  you  a  story  with  a  better  catastrophe.  It 
was  told  to  me  when  a  boy ;  and  you  may  not  be 


unwilling  to  hear  it,  for  it  bears  some  resemblance  to 
that  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  command- 
ed one  of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable ;  the 
.nountains,  the  sea,  and  the  islands  illuminated  by 
the  last  beams  of  day;  and,  sitting  down  there,  he 
proceeded  with  his  usual  vivacity;  for  the  sadness, 
that  had  come  across  him,  was  gone. 

There  lived  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near  Bo- 
logna, a  w-idow-lady  of  the  Lambcitini  family,  called 
Madonna  Lucrezia,  who  in  a  revolution  of  the  state 
had  known  the  bitterness  of  poverty,  and  had  even 
begged  her  bread ;  kneeling  day  after  day  like  a 
statue  at  the  gate  of  the  cathedral ;  her  rosary  in  her 
left  hand  and  her  right  held  out  for  charity ;  her  long 
black  veil  concealing  a  face  that  had  once  adorned  a 
court,  and  had  received  the  homage  of  as  many  son- 
nets as  Petrarch  has  written  on  Laura. 

But  fortune  had  at  last  relented ;  a  legacy  from  a 
distant  relation  had  come  to  her  relief;  and  she  was 
now  the  mistress  of  a  small  inn  at  the  foot  of  the  Ap- 
ennines; where  she  entertained  as  well  as  she  could, 
and  where  those  only  stopped  who  were  contented 
A\-ith  a  little.  The  house  was  still  standing,  when  in 
my  youth  I  passed  that  way ;  though  the  sign  of  the 
White  Cross,  the  Cross  of  the  Hospitallers,  was  no 
longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door ;  a  sign  which  she 
had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the  tradition  there,  in 
honor  of  a  maternal  imcle,  a  grand-master  of  that 
Order,  whose  achievements  in  Palestine  she  wouM 
sometimes  relate.  A  mountain-stream  ran  through 
the  garden ;  and  at  no  great  distance,  where  the  road 
turned  on  its  way  to  Bologna,  stood  a  little  chapel,  in 
which  a  lamp  was  always  burning  before  a  picture 
of  the  Virgin,  a  picture  of  great  antiquit)^  the  work 
of  some  Greek  artist. 

Here  she  was  dwelling,  respected  by  all  who  knew 
her;  when  an  event  took  place,  which  threw  her 
into  the  deepest  affliction.  It  was  at  noon-day  in 
September  that  three  foot-travellers  arrived,  and, 
seating  themselves  on  a  bench  under  her  vine-trellis, 
were  supplied  with  a  flagon  of  Aleatico  by  a  lovely 
girl,  her  only  child,  the  image  of  her  former  self 
The  eldest  spoke  like  a  ^'enetian,  and  his  beard  was 
short  and  pointed  after  the  fashion  of  Venice.  In  his 
demeanor  he  affected  great  courtesy,  but  his  look  in- 
spired little  confidence ;  for  when  he  smiled,  which 
he  did  continually,  it  was  with  his  lips  only,  not  with 
his  eyes ;  and  they  were  always  turned  from  yours. 
His  companions  were  bluff  and  frank  in  their  man- 
ner, and  on  their  tongues  had  many  a  soldier's  oath. 
In  their  hals  they  wore  a  medal,  such  as  in  that  age  '< 
was  often  distributed  in  war;  and  they  were  evi- 
dently subalterns  in  one  of  those  Free  Bands  which 
were  always  ready  to  serve  in  any  quarrel,  if  a  ser- 
vice it  could  be  called,  where  a  battle  was  httle  more 
than  a  mocker}' ;  and  the  slain,  as  on  an  opera-stage, 
were  up  and  fighting  to-morrow.  Overcome  with  the 
heat,  they  threw  aside  their  cloaks ;  and,  with  their 
gloves  tucked  under  their  belts,  continued  for  some 
time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go :  and  the  Venetians  thus 
addressed  their  Hostess.  "Excellent  Lady,  may  we 
leave  under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two,  this  bag  of 
gold  ?"  "  You  may,"  she  replied  gaily.  "  But  remem- 
ber, we  fasten  only  with  a  latch.     Bars  and  bolts, 

80 


ITALY. 


73 


we  have  none  in  our  village ;  and,  if  we  had,  where 
•would  be  your  security  ?" 
"  In  your  word,  Lady." 

"  But  what  if  I  died  to-night  ?  Where  would  it  be 
then  ?"  said  she,  laughing.  "The  money  would  go  to 
the  Church ;  for  none  could  claim  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  favor  us  with  an  acknowledg- 
ment." 

"  If  you  will  write  it." 

An  acknow^ledgment  was  written  accordingly,  and 
she  signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo,  the  village  phy- 
sician who  had  just  called  by  chance  to  learn  the  news 
of  the  day ;  the  gold  to  be  delivered  w  hen  applied 
for,  but  to  be  delivered  (these  were  the  words)  not  to 
one — nor  to  two — but  to  the  three;  words  wisely 
introduced  by  those  to  whom  it  belonged,  knowing 
what  they  knew  of  each  other.  The  gold  they  had 
just  released  from  a  miser's  chest  in  Perugia ;  and 
they  were  now  on  a  scent  that  promised  more. 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  departed, 
than  the  Venetian  returned,  saying,  "  Give  me  leave 
to  set  my  seal  on  the  bag,  as  the  others  have  done ;" 
and  she  placed  it  on  a  table  before  him.  But  in  that 
moment  she  was  called  away  to  receive  a  Cavalier, 
who  had  just  dismounted  from  his  horse  ;  and,  when 
she  came  back,  it  was  gone.  The  temptation  had 
proved  irresistible  ;  and  the  man  and  the  money  had 
vanished  together. 

"  Wretched  woman  that  I  am ! "  she  cried,  as  in  an 
agony  of  grief  she  fell  on  her  daughter's  neck,  "  What 
will  become  of  us  ?  Are  we  again  to  be  cast  out  into 
the  wide  world  ? — Unhappy  child,  would  that  thou 
hadst  never  been  born!"  and  all  day  long  she  la- 
mented ;  but  her  tears  availed  her  little.  The  others 
were  not  slow  in  returning  to  claim  their  due  ;  and 
there  were  no  tidings  of  the  thief:  he  had  fled  far 
away  with  his  plunder.  A  process  against  her  was 
instantly  begun  in  Bologna ;  and  what  defence  could 
she  make  ? — how  release  herself  from  the  obligation 
of  the  bond  ?  Wilfully  or  in  negligence  she  had 
parted  with  it  to  one,  when  she  should  have  kept  it 
for  all ;  and  inevitable  ruin  awaited  her  ! 

"  Go,  Gianetia,"  said  she  to  her  daughter,  "  take 
this  veil  which  your  mother  has  worn  and  wept 
under  so  often,  and  implore  the  Counsellor  Calderino 
to  plead  for  us  on  the  day  of  trial.  He  is  generous, 
and  will  listen  to  the  unfortunate.  But,  if  he  will 
not,  go  from  door  to  door ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse  us. 
Make  haste,  my  child ;  but  remember  the  chapel  as 
you  pass  by  it.  Nothing  prospers  without  a  prayer." 
Alas,  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  retained 
against  ihem ;  those  demanded  more  than  they  had 
to  give ;  and  all  bade  them  despair.  W^hat  was  to 
be  done  ?  No  advocate ;  and  the  cause  to  come  on 
to-morrow ! 

Now  Gianetta  had  a  lover ;  and  he  was  a  student 
of  the  law,  a  young  man  of  great  promise,  Lorenzo 
Martelli.  He  had  studied  long  and  diligently  under 
that  learned  lawyer,  Giovanni  Andreas,  who,  though 
little  of  stature,  was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  con- 
temporaries was  called  the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi 
I  of  Doctors,  the  Light  of  the  World.  Under  him  he 
had  studied,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  Petrarch; 
and  also  under  his  daughter.  Novella,  who  would 
often  lecture  to  the  scholars,  when  her  father  was 
otherwdse  engaged,  placing  herself  behind  a  small 
11 


curtain,  lest  her  beauty  should  divert  their  thoughts ; 
a  precaution  in  this  instance  at  least  unnecessary, 
Lorenzo  having  lost  his  heart  to  another.' 

To  him  she  flies  in  her  necessity ;  but  of  what 
assistance  can  he  be  ?  He  has  just  taken  his  place  at 
the  bar,  but  he  has  never  spoken  ;  and  how  stand  up 
alone,  unpractised  and  unprepared  as  he  is,  against 
an  array  that  would  alarm  the  most  experienced?— 
"  Were  I  as  mighty  as  I  am  weak,"  said  he,  "  my 
fears  for  you  would  make  me  as  nothing.  But  I  wUl 
be  there,  Gianetta;  and  may  the  Friend  of  the 
Friendless  give  me  strength  in  that  hour !  Even  now 
my  heart  fails  me  ;  but,  come  what  will,  while  I  have 
a  loaf  to  share,  you  and  your  mother  shall  never  want. 
I  will  beg  through  the  world  for  you." 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles.  The 
claim  is  stated,  and  the  evidence  given.  And  now  the 
defence  is  called  for — but  none  is  made  ;  not  a  syl- 
lable is  uttered  ;  and,  after  a  pause  and  a  consulta- 
tion of  some  minutes,  the  Judges  are  proceeding  to 
give  judgment,  silence  having  been  proclaimed  in 
the  court,  when  Lorenzo  rises  and  thus  addresses 
them. 

"  Reverend  Signors.  Young  as  I  am,  may  I  venture 
to  speak  before  you  ?  I  would  speak  in  behalf  of  one 
who  has  none  else  to  help  her ;  and  I  will  not  keep 
you  long. 

"  Much  has  been  said ;  much  on  the  sacred  nature 
of  the  obligation — and  we  acknowledge  it  in  its  full 
force.  Let  it  be  fullllled,  and  to  the  last  letter.  It  is 
what  we  solicit,  what  we  require.  But  to  whom  is 
the  bag  of  gold  to  be  delivered  ?  What  says  the  bond  ? 
Not  to  one — not  to  two — but  to  the  three.  Let  the 
three  stand  forth  and  claim  it." 

From  that  day,  (for  w  ho  can  doubt  the  issue  T)  none 
were  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  subtle,  the  elo- 
quent Lorenzo.  W^eallh  followed  Fame ;  nor  need  I 
say  how  soon  he  sat  at  his  marriage-feast,  or  who  sat 
beside  him. 

XVH. 
A  CHARACTER. 

One  of  two  things  Montrioli  may  have, 
My  envy  or  compassion.    Both  he  cannot. 
Yet  on  he  goes,  numbering  as  miseries, 
WTiat  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 
What  most  indeed  he  prides  himself  upon. 
And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 
"At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour ; 
At  noon  the  king.  Then  comes  the  council-board  ; 
And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.  When,  ah !  when, 
The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for  ? 
Not  w  hen  at  home ;  at  home  a  miscreant-crew, 
That  now  no  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 
And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore. 
The  steward,  his  stories  longer  than  his  rent-roll. 
Who  enters,  quill  in  ear,  and,  one  by  one. 
As  though  I  lived  to  write  and  wrote  to  live, 
Unrolls  his  leases  for  my  signature." 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  who  would  wear  them,  and  become  the  slave 


1  Ce  pourroit  etre,  saysBayle,  la  matiere  d'un  joli  problems 
on  pourroit  examiner  si  cette  filie  avancoit,  ou  si  elle  r^tardoit 
le  profit  de  ses  auditeurs,  en  leur  cachant  son  beau  visage.  ]lv 
auroit  cent  choses  a  dire  pour  et  centre  Ik-dessus. 

81 


74 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  Ihst, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemploy'd. 
But  to  the  wise  how  precious ! — every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 
To  read  them  ?  All,  wherever  in  the  scale, 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptre, 
Much  to  be  grateful  for ;  but  most  has  he, 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone. 
Where  Knowledge  hghts  his  lamp,  there  most  secure. 
And  Wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament. 
That  Seraph  sittmg  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,  distinction,  power. 
Are  baubles  nothing  worth,  that  only  serve 
To  rouse  us  up,  as  children  in  the  schools 
Are  roused  up  to  exertion.   The  reward 
Is  in  the  race  we  run,  not  in  the  prize ; 
And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it, 
Having  by  favor  or  inheritance, 
These  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands, 
And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well-tried, 
All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 
For  manhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age. 
Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride 
That  glows  in  him  who  on  hinaself  relies. 
Entering  the  lists  of  life. 

XVIII. 

SORRENTO. 

He  who  sets  sail  from  Naples,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  Posilipo,  may  soon, 
Crossing  from  side  to  side  that  beautiful  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliti;  where  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore, 
One  laugh'd  and  play'd,  unconscious  of  his  fate  ; ' 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life, 
To  be  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not. 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift. 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war. 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and,  from  age  to  age, 
Sweeten  the  labor,  when  the  oar  was  phed 
Or  on  the  Adrian  or  the  Tuscan  sea. 

There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  again, 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored, 
Where  to  Salvator  (when,  as  some  relate, 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life, 
Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved. 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 
Katnre  reveal'd  herself    Unveil'd  she  stood, 
In  all  her  wiV^ness,  all  her  majesty. 
As  in  that  cider  time,  ere  Man  w; 


There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  again : 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  cape, 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 
The  fishing-town,  Amalfi.  (165)  Haply  there 


ITasso. 


A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand. 
May  tell  him  what  it  is  ;  but  what  it  was, 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon. 

The  time  has  been, 
\\  hen  on  the  quays  along  the  Syrian  coast, 
'T  was  ask'd  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  dawTi, 
"  What  ships  are  from  Amalfi  ?"  when  her  coins, 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime  ; 
From  Alexandria  southward  to  Sennaar, 
And  eastward,  through  Damascus  a, id  Cabul 
And  Samarcand,  to  thy  great  wall,  Cathay, 

Then  were  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  sway'd ; 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.    In  her  port 
Prows,  strange,  uncouth,  from.  Nile  and  Niger  met, 
People  of  various  feature,  various  speech ; 
And  in  their  countries  m.any  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was. 
And  many  a  well,  like  Jacob's  in  the  wild. 
Rose  at  her  bidding.   Then  in  Palestine, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur  stood 
An  Hospital,  that,  night  and  dav,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  (166)  and,  when  'twas 

ask'd, 
"  \Vho  are  the  noble  founders  ?"  everj'  tongue 
At  once  replied,  "  The  merchants  of  Amalfi." 
That  Hospital,  when  Godfrey  scaled  the  walls, 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquish'd  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible. 
So  long  renown'd  as  champions  of  the  Cross, 
In  R'nodes,  in  Malta. 

For  three  hundred  years. 
There,  unapproach'd  but  from  the  deep,  they  dwelt , 
Assail'd  for  ever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.    From  the  deep 
They  gather'd  in  their  harvests ;  bringing  home. 
In  the  same  ship,  relics  of  ancient  Greece,  (167) 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fathers  lay. 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  Sicily,  (168) 
And  Indian  spices.   When  at  length  they  fell. 
Losing  their  liberty,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  compared  with  which  the  wealth 
Of  Eastern  kings — w  hat  is  it  in  the  scale  ? — 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot, 
And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured, 
Struggling  with  fortune.    When  Sicardi  stood. 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried,  "Come  forth, 
And  serve  me  in  Salerno !"  forth  they  came. 
Covering  the  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle ; 
The  women  Availing,  and  the  heaAy  oar 
Falling  unheard.    Not  thus  did  they  return, 
The  tyrant  slain ;  (169)  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  tlieir  streets. 

There  now'  to  him  who  sailn 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages, 
Scatter'd  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds, 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark-blue  sea, 
And  glittering  through  their  lemon-groves,  announce 
The  region  of  Amalfi.   Then,  half-fallen, 
A  lonely  watch-tower  on  the  precipice. 
Their  ancient  land-mark,  comes.    Long  may  it  last,- 
And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age. 
Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 
Serve  for  their  monument  I  (170) 

82 


ITALY. 


75 


XIX. 
P^STUM. 
They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea ; 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not!' 
The  seaman,  passing,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buifalordriver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Temples  of  Gods !  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice ! 
Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for  Justice  ; 
And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused ; 
And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 
All  silent  now  ! — as  in  the  ages  past. 
Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea, 
While,  by  some  spell  render'd  invisible. 
Or,  if  approach'd,  approach'd  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remain'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre, 
Waiting  the  appointed  time !   All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  Nature  had  resumed  her  right, 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced ; 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus. 
But  with  thick  ivy  himg  or  branching  fern  ; 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure ! 

From  my  youth  upi^ard  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes, 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove, 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like. 
Mountains  and  mountain  gulfs,  and,  half-way  up. 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate. 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.2 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild  (171) 
'Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals; 
Sweet  as  when  Tully,  writing  down  his  thoughts. 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost,  (172) 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  Philosophy, 
Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul) 
Sail'd  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago. 
For  Athens  ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Poestan  gardens,  slack'd  her  course 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore, 
These  temples,  in  their  splendor  eminent 
Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers. 
Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west. 
Well  might  He  dream  of  Glory ! — Now,  coil'd  up, 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them ;  the  she-wolf 
Suckles  her  young ;  and,  as  alone  I  stand 
In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 
t)f  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering. 
How  solemn  is  the  stillness !  Nothing  stirs^ 


1  The  temples  of  Paestum  are  three  in  number;  and  have 
survived,  nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruction  of  the  city. 
Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them  ;  but  they  must  have  exist- 
ed now  between  two  and  three  thousand  years. 

2  Spartacus.   See  Plutarch  in  the  Ufe  of  Crassus. 


Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 
On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing  ; 
Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass, 
And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  motion, 
To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  Time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused, 
Across  the  imiumerable  columns  fliuig) 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told, 
Led  by  the  mighty  Genius  of  the  Place." 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appear'd, 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scatter'd  as  in  scorn ; 
— And  what  within  them  ?  uhat  but  in  the  midst 
These  Three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear, 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 

'T  is  said  a  sti-anger  in  the  days  of  old 
(Some  say  a  Dorian,  some  a  Sybarite  ; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds), 
'T  is  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plow, 
Traced  out  the  site  ;  and  Posidonia  rose,  (173) 
Severely  great,  Neptune  the  tutelar  God  ; 
A  Homer's  language  murmuriug  in  her  streets. 
And  in  her  haven  many  a  mast  from  Tyre. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knock'd  and  enter'd  Avilh  a  train  in  arms  ; 
And  all  was  changed,  her  very  name  and  language 
The  Tyrian  merchant,  shipping  at  his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sail'd  as  before,  but  sailing,  cried  "  For  Paestum !" 
And  now  a  Virgil,  now  an  Ovid  sung 
Pffistum's  twice-blowing  roses  ;  while,  within, 
Parents  and  children  mourn'd — and,  every  year, 
('T  was  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival) 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again, 
Talk'd  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by.^ 
At  length  an  Arab  cHmb'd  the  battlem.ents, 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  from  all  eyes  the  glorious  vision  fled ! 
Leaving  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous. 
Where  whom  the  robber  spares,  a  deadlier  foe' 
Strikes  at  unseen — and  at  a  time  when  joy 
Opens  the  heart,  when  summer-skies  are  blue, 
And  the  clear  air  is  .soft  and  delicate  ; 
For  then  the  demon  works — then  with  that  air 
The  thoughtless  wretch  drinks  in  a  subtle  poison 
Lulling  to  sleep ;  and,  Avhen  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  These  still  standing  in  the  midst  ? 
The  earth  has  rock'd  beneath ;  the  Thunder-stone 
Passed  through  and  through,  and  left  its  traces  there, 
Yet  still  they  stand  as  by  some  Unknown  Charter.' 
Oh,  they  are  Nature's  own !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  Mountains  and  the  eternal  Sea, 
They  want  no  written  history  ;  theirs  a  voice 
For  ever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  Man ! 


1  They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident  abou 
the  middle  of  the  last  century. 

2  Athensus,  xiv.  3  The  Mal'aria. 

83 


76 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XX. 

MONTE  CASSINO. 

"What   hangs   behind    that    curtain?"    (174) — 
"  Wouldst  thou  learn  ? 
[f  thou  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.    'T  is  by  some 
Believed  to  be  his  master-work,  who  look'd 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel-wall, 
A.S  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and  past, 
Drew  the  Last  Judgment.' — But  the  Wisest  err. 
He  who  in  secret  wrought,  and  gave  it  life. 
For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change,  (175) 
Life,  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart, 
(They  who  behold  it,  go  not  as  they  came, 
But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day) 
Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.    We  loiow  not  much  ; 
But  what  we  know,  we  will  communicate. 
T  is  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  House ; 
iud  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fall ! 

Once — on  a  Christmas-eve — ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent-gate, 
And  ask'd  admittance ;  ever  and  anon. 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  fear'd  to  find, 
Looking  behind  him.    When  within  the  walls. 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolable. 
Still  did  he  look  behind  him ;  oft  and  long. 
With  haggard  eye  and  curling,  quivering  lip. 
Catching  at  vacancy.    Between  the  fits. 
For  here,  'I  is  said,  he  linger'd  while  he  lived, 
He  would  discourse,  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explain'd, 
Unfelt  before ;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale, 
All  was  forgotten.   Then,  howe'er  employed, 
He  would  break  off,  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  sometliing  that  would  not  be  gone ; 
And  turn  and  gaze,  and  shrink  into  himself 
As  though  the  Fiend  was  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowl'd  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was ; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  Services ; 
Then,  only  then,  untroubled,  unassail'd  ; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour, 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  in  Florence  ;  vCith  a  master's  hand, 
As  to  this  day  the  Sacristy  attests. 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  Apocalypse. 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  work  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be, 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.    Whence  he  drew, 
None  here  can  doubt :  for  they  that  come  to  catch 
The  faintest  glimpse — to  catch  it  and  be  gone. 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves. 
Acting  the  self-same  part.    But  why  'twas  drawTi, 
Whether  in  penance,  to  atone  for  Guilt,  \ 
Or  to  record  the  anguish  Guilt  inflicts. 
Or  haply  to  familiarize  his  mind 
With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 
For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  souL" 


1  Michael  Angelo. 


XXI. 
THE  HARPER. 
It  w-as  a  Harper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
His  only  treasure  ;  a  majestic  man. 
By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued  ; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  day  by  day 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betray'd, 
Bhnd  as  old  Homer.    At  a  fount  he  sate, 
Well-kno\Mi  to  many  a  weary  traveller ; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old, 
But  grave,  considerate  beyond  his  years, 
Sitting  beside  him.    Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin-spring ; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was, 
The  sun's  dechne  awa^ited. 

But  the  child 
Was  worn  \\"ith  travel.    Heavy  sleep  weigh'd  doviTi 
His  eye-lids ;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came, 
Em^bolden'd  by  his  love  and  by  his  fear. 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road, 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.    Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse? — Not  I ;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  witli  every  earthly  gift, 
I  cannot  envy.    He,  if  wealth  be  his. 
Knows  not  its  uses.    So  from  noon  till  night. 
Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle,  (176) 
Thai  yet  display'd,  in  old  emblazonry, 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear;  (177) 
We  lumber'd  on  together ;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length. 
When  question'd  the  adventures  of  his  life, 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone ; 
His  shipwrecks  on  inhospitable  coasts. 
And  his  long  warfare. 

They  were  bound,  he  said, 
To  a  great  fair  at  Reggio;  and  the  boy, 
Believing  all  the  world  were  to  be  there, 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue, 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.    His  short  trance, 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  like  a  charmed  cup, 
Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawl'd. 
Slow  as  the  snail  (my  muleteer  dismounting, 
And  now  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe. 
And  now  Luigi)  he  pour'd  out  his  heart, 
Largely  repaying  me.    At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  .setting  in  a  sea  of  gold  ; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  be. 

Their  harp — it  had  a  voice  oracular, 
And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street, 
Spoke  when  consulted.   If  the  treble  chord 
Twanged  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale  they 

went. 
The  grandsire,  step  by  step,  led  by  the  child ; 
And  not  a  rain-drop  from  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.    Thus  it  spoke  to-day ; 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind. 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 

XXII. 

THE  FELUCA. 

Day  glimmer'd  ;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  follow'd  as  in  love  with  fear. 

84 


ITALY. 


77 


Or  as  in  scorn,  yet  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  wiiere  it  menaced  most), 
A  sea  of  vapor  roU'd.     Metliought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world ; 
But  soon  the  surges  tied,  and  we  descried 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet. 
Thy  gulf.  La  Spezzia.     Ere  the  morning-gun, 
Ere  the  first  day-streak,  we  alighted  there , 
And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur!  Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.    Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir ;  as  at  the  noontide  hour. 
None  unemploy'd.     Where  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea. 
The  maidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont, 
Washing  their  garments.     Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 
Keel-upward,  and  the  fagot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  caldron ;  while,  beyond  the  fort 
Whither  I  wander'd,  step  by  step  led  on. 
The  fishers  dragg'd  their  net,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life, 
At  every  heave  striking  their  silver  fins 
'Gainst  the  dark  meshes. 

Soon  a  boatman's  shout 
Re-echoed ;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach. 
Waving,  recall'd  me.     We  embark'd  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  Genoa  reign'd, 
A  hundred  galleys  shelter'd — in  the  day. 
When  lofty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
Doria,  Pisani  (178)  fought;  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.    On  we  went. 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea,  (179) 
On  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun. 
In  silence — underneath  a  mountain-ridge. 
Untamed,  untamable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot. 
Some  village  and  its  church,  a  scanty  line. 
Athwart  the  wave  gleam'd  faintly.     Fear  of  ill 
Narrow'd  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane, 
And  that  yet  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 
Who,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey. 
Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast 
(Where  Tripoli  and  Tunis  and  Algiers 
Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 
Gather,  whene'er  the  Crescent  comes  display'd 
Over  the  Cross)  his  human  merchandise 
To  many  a  curious,  manv  a  cruel  eye 
Exposes.     Ah,  how  oft  where  now  the  sun 
Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  cimeters 
Flash'd  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 
Dragg'd  forth,  e re-long  to  number  them  for  sale, 
Ere-long  to  part  them  in  their  agony. 
Parent  and  child  I  How  oft  where  now  we  rode  (180) 
Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son. 
Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  grey  in  chains, 
Labor'd,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 
Upon  the  land — the  land,  that  gave  him  birth ; 
And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears 
Fondly  imagined  ;  when  a  Christian  ship 
Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 
A  voice  in  anger  cried,  "  Use  all  your  strength !" 

But  when,  ah  when,  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting  ?    Strange,  that  men. 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas '  to  die, 

H 


Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this  world 

A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself. 

Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 

To  him  who  never  wrong'd  them !  Who  that  breathea 

Would  not,  w  hen  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 

As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible  ? 

Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 

A  consciousness  how  soon  we  shall  be  gone. 

Or,  if  we  linger — but  a  few  short  years — 

How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave, 

Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love. 

And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve. 

Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
Rose  like  another  sun,  illumining 
Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower, 
Scenes  of  Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often — scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand. 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odors.    All  was  still ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  pour'd  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heart-felt  delight. 
So  fast  it  flow'd,  her  tongue  so  voluble. 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 
Ere  half  was  told.    'Twas  where  in  the  north-wesl^ 
Still  unassail'd  and  unassailable, 
Thy  pharos,  Genoa,  first  display'd  itself, 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star,  so  oft  the  only  one. 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault. 
Are  dark  and  silent.     'Twas  where  o'er  the  sea. 
For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length, 
Delicious  gardens  hung  ;  green  galleries, 
And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight. 
And  fairy-arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
Wildering,  enchanting ;  and,  above  them  all, 
A  Palace,  such  as  .somewhere  in  the  East, 
In  Zenaslan  or  Araby  the  blest, 
Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold. 
And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sun, 
Rose,  when  Aladdin  rubb'd  the  wondrous  lamp; 
Such,  if  not  fairer ;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 
A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 
The  windows  blazing.     But  we  now  approach'd 
A  City  far-renown'd  ;  •  and  wonder  ceased. 

XXIIL 

GENOA. 

Tins  house  was  Andrea  Doria's.  Here  he  lived ;  (1 81) 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore, 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse  (182) 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 
As  on  his  deck.    'T  is  less  in  length  and  breadth 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war ; 
But  'tis  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better ;  and  't  is  now 
A  house  of  trade,  (183)  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.     Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 


1  Genoa. 


85 


78 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'Tis  still  the  noblest  dwelling — even  in  Genoa! 
And  hadst  thou,  Andrea,  lived  there  to  the  last. 
Thou  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without, 
That  in  the  Avail,  which  monarchs  could  not  give, 
Kor  thou  take  with  thee,  that  which  says  aloud, 
]t  was  thy  Country's  gift  to  her  Deliverer. 

'Tis  in  the  heart  of  Genoa  (he  w^ho  comes. 
Must  come  on  foot)  and  in  a  place  of  stir ; 
Men  on  their  daily  business,  early  and  late. 
Thronging  thy  very  threshold.     But  when  there. 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow-citizens, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hail'd  thee  as  their  sire ; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there. 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gavest  them  more  than  life, 
Giving  what,  lost,  makes  life  not  worth  the  keeping. 
There  thou  didst  do  indeed  an  act  divine ; 
Nor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in. 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

Thou  art  now 
Agam  among  them.    Thy  brave  mariners, 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side, 
Staining  the  mountain-billows,  bore  thee  back ; 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral-chamber. 

Thine  w^as  a  glorious  course;   but  couldst  thou 
there. 
Clad  m  thy  cere-cloth — in  that  silent  vault, 
^Vhere  thou  art  gather'd  to  thy  ancestors — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all. 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  pass'd  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left. 
Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected,  (184) 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 
The  ambitious  man,'  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank.  (185) 

A  FAREWELL.2 

And  now  farew-ell  to  Italy — perhaps 
For  ever!   Yet,  methinlcs,  I  could  not  go, 
I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 
"  Farewell  for  ever !" 

Many  a  courtesy. 
That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 
But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came, 
Have  I  experienced ;  not  a  cabin-door, 
Go  where  I  would,  but  open'd  with  a  smile ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent, 
Strange  perfumes  rose,  as  if  to  welcome  me. 
From  flowers  that  minisler'd  like  unseen  spirits ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage-songs  broke  forth, 
A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  Southern  lakes, 
Dazzlingly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet  ; 
They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere-long 
Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed — onward  to  roll 
From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty. 
Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 
The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude. 
No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 
Much  to  remember — from  the  Polesine, 


Where,  when  the  south-wind  blows,  and  clouds  on 

clouds 
Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  bark, 
Mindful  to  migrate  when  the  king  of  floods ' 
Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  keel. 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  and  fence. 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters — from  that  low, 
Tiiat  level  region,  where  no  Echo  dwells. 
Or,  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight, 
Hoarse,  inarticulate — on  to  where  the  path 
Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 
Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death ; 
Where  the  wild-boar  retreats,  when  hunters  chafe 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  buflTalo-herd, 
Afflicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool, 
Notliing  discern'd  amid  the  water-leaves. 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head, 
Savage,  uncouth  ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-like, 
Urging  his  steed  along  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travell'd  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  turn'd 
(Ah  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been  ?) 
When  in  the  South,  against  the  azure  sky, 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty. 
The  wondrous  work  of  some  heroic  race.^ 

But  now  a  long  farewell !   Oft,  wliile  I  live. 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
In  my  own  chinuiey-nook,  as  Night  steals  on, 
With  halfshut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  methinks. 
While  the  wind  blusters  and  the  pelting  rain 
Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mind 
The  scenes,  occirrrences,  I  met  with  here, 
And  wander  in  Elysium ;  many  a  note 
Of  wildest  melody,  magician-like. 
Awakening,  such  as  the  Calabrian  horn. 
Along  the  mountain-side,  when  all  is  still, 
Pours  forth  at  folding-time ;  and  many  a  chant, 
Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 
Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens,  La  Cava ; 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear, 
Novv  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  Heaven ! 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


1  Fiesco. 


Written  at  Susa,  May  1, 1822. 


Note  1,  page  40,  col.  2. 
As  on  tliat  Sabbath-eve  when  he  arrived. 
"  J'arrive  essouffle,  tout  en  nage ;  le  coeur  me  bat, 
je  vols  de  loin  les  soldats  a  leur  poste  ;  j'accours,  je 
crie  d'une  voix  ctoufl^ee.  II  etoit  trop  tard." — See  Les 
Confessions,  L.  i.  The  street,  in  which  he  was  born, 
is  called  Rue  Rousseau. 

Note  2,  page  40,  col.  2. 

He  sate  him  down  and  wept — wept  till  the  morning. 
"  Lines  of  eleven  syllables  occur  almost  in  every  page 
of  Milton ;  but  though  ihey  are  not  unpleasing,  they 
ought  not  to  be  admitted  into  heroic  poetry ;  since  the 


1  The  Po. 


2  The  temples  of  Paestum. 

86 


ITALY. 


79 


narrow  limits  of  our  language  allov;  us  no  other  dis- 
tinction of  epic  and  tragic  measures." — Johnson. 

It  is  remarkable  that  he  used  them  most  at  last. 
In  the  Paradise  Regained  they  occur  oftener  than  in 
the  Paradise  Lost,  in  the  proportion  of  ten  to  one  ; 
and  let  it  be  remembered  that  they  supply  us  with 
another  close,  another  cadence ;  that  they  add,  as  it 
were,  a  string  to  the  instrument ;  and,  by  enabling  the 
Poet  to  relax  at  pleasure,  to  rise  and  fall  with  his 
subject,  contribute  what  is  most  wanted,  compass, 
variety. 

Shakspeare  seems  to  have  delighted  in  them,  and 
in  some  of  his  soliloquies  has  used  them  foru-  and  five 
times  in  succession ;  an  example  I  have  not  followed 
in  mine.  As  in  the  following  instance,  where  the  sub- 
ject is  solemn  beyond  all  others: 

To  be,  or  not  to  he,  that  is  the  question. 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles. 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them. 
They  come  nearest  to  the  flow  of  an  unstudied 
eloquence,  and  should  therefore  be  used  in  the  drama ; 
but  why  exclusively  ?  Horace,  as  we  learn  from  him- 
self, admitted  the  Musa  Pedestris  in   his  happiest 
hours,  in  those  when  he  was  most  at  his  ease  ;  and 
we  cannot  regret  her  visits.  To  her  we  are  indebted 
for  more  than  half  he  has  left  us ;  nor  was  she  ever 
at  his   elbow  in  greater  dishabille,   than  when  he 
wrote  the  celebrated  Journey  to  Brundusiura. 

Note  3,  page  41,  col.  1. 

like  him  of  old. 

Tlie  Abbot  of  Clairvaux.  "  To  admire  or  despise 
St.  Bernard  as  he  ought,"  says  Gibbon,  "  the  reader, 
like  myself,  should  have  before  the  windows  of  his 
library  that  incomparable  landscape." 

Note  4,  page  41,  col.  1. 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty. 
There  is  no  describing  in  words ;  but  the  follow- 
ing lines  were  written  on  the  spot,  and  may  serve 
perhaps  to  recall  to  some  of  my  readers  what  they 
have  seen  in  this  enchanting  country. 

I  love  to  watch  in  silence  till  the  Sun 

Sets:  and  Mont  Blanc,  array'd  in  crimson  and  gold, 

Flings  his  broad  shadow  half  across  the  Lake; 

That  shadow,  though  it  comes  through  pathless  tracts 

Of  ether,  and  o'er  Alp  and  desert  drear, 

Only  less  bright,  less  glorious  than  himself. 

But,  while  we  gaze,  'tis  gone'.    And  now  he  shines 

Like  burnish'd  silver;  all,  below,  the  Night's. — 

Such  moments  are  most  precious.    Yet  there  are 

Others,  that  follow  them,  to  me  still  more  so  ; 

When  once  again  he  changes,  once  again 

Clothing  himself  in  grandeur  all  his  own  : 

When,  like  a  Ghost,  shadowless,  colorless. 

He  melts  away  into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens  ; 

Himself  alone  rcveal'd,  all  lesser  things 

As  though  they  were  not! 

Note  5,  page  41,  col.  2. 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanor  welcomed  me. 
Berri,  so  remarkable  for  his  sagacity,  was  dead. 
His  skin  is  stuffed,  and  is  preserved  in  the  Museum 
of  Berne. 

Note  6,  page  42,  col.  1. 
But  the  Bise  blew  co'd. 
The  north-east  wind.     This  description  was  writ- 
ten in  June,  1816. 


Note  7,  page  42,  col.  1. 
St.  Bruno's  once — 

The  Grande  Chartreuse.  It  was  indebted  for  its 
foundation  to  a  miracle ;  as  every  guest  may  learn 
there  from  a  little  book  that  lies  on  the  table  in  his 
cell,  the  cell  allotted  to  him  by  the  fathers. 

'•  In  this  year  the  canon  died,  and,  as  all  believetl, 
in  the  odor  of  sanctity:  for  who  in  his  life  had  been 
so  holy,  in  his  death  so  happy?  But  false  are  tho 
judgments  of  men;  as  the  event  showeth.  For  when 
the  hour  of  his  funeral  had  arrived,  when  the  mourn 
ers  had  entered  the  church,  the  bearers  set  down  the 
bier,  and  every  voice  was  lifted  up  in  the  Miserere, 
suddenly,  and  as  none  knew  how,  the  lights  were  ex- 
tinguished, the  anthem  stopt !  A  darkness  succeeded, 
a  silence  as  of  the  grave  ;  and  these  words  came  in 
sorrowful  accents  from  the  lips  of  the  dead.    "  I  am 

summoned  before  a  Just  God  I A  Just  God  judgeth 

me! 1  am  condemned  by  a  Just  God  I" 

In  the  church,  says  the  legend,  "  there  stood  a 
young  man  with  his  hands  clasped  in  prayer,  who 
from  that  time  resolved  to  withdraw  into  the  desert. 
It  was  he  whom  we  now  invoke  as  St.  Bruno." 

Note  8,  page  42,  col.  1. 
that  house  so  rich  of  old, 


So  courteous. 
The  words  of  Ariosto. 

Ricca — e  cortesa  a  chiunrjue  vi  venia. 
Milton  was  there  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf. 

Note  9,  page  42,  col.  2. 

Bread  to  the  hungry. 
They  distribute,  in  the  com^e  of  the  year,  from 
thirty  to  thirty-five  thousand  rations  of  food ;  receiving 
travellers  of  every  description. — Le  Pere  Biselx, 
Prieur. 

Note  10,  page  42,  col.  2. 
Dessaix,  who  turn'd  the  scale. 
"  Of  all  the  generals  I  ever  had  under  me,  Dessaix 
possessed  the  greatest  talents.  He  loved  glor}'  for  itself" 

Note  11,  page  43,  col.  1. 
And  gather'd  from  above,  below,  around. 
The  Author  of  Lalla  Rookh,  a  Poet  of  such  singu- 
lar felicity  as  to  give  a  lustre  to  all  he  touches,  has 
written  a  song  on  this  subject,  called  the  Cr}-stal 
hunters. 

Note  12,  page  43,  col.  1. 

nor  long  before. 

M.  Ebel  mentions  an  escape  almost  as  miraculous. 

L'an  1790,  le  nomme  Christian  Boren,  proprie- 
taire  de  Tauberge  du  Grindelwald,  eut  le  malheurde 
se  Jeter  dans  une  fente  du  glacier,  en  le  traversant 
avec  un  troupeau  de  moutons  qu'il  ramenoit  des  patu- 
rages  de  Baniseck.  Heureusement  qu'il  tomba  dans 
le  voisinage  du  grand  torrent  qui  coule  dans  Finteri- 
eur,  il  en  suivit  le  lit  par-dessous  les  voutes  de  glace 
et  arriva  au  pied  du  glacier  avec  un  bras  casse.  Cat 
homme  est  actuellement  encore  en  vie." 

Manuel  da  Voyageur.  ^^i.  Grindelwala 

Note  13,  page  43,  col.  2. 

a  wondrous  monument. 

Almost  every  mountain  of  any  rank  or  condition 
has  such  a  bridee.  The  most  celebrated  in  this  couiv 
I  try  is  on  the  Swiss  side  of  St.  Gothard. 

87 


80 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  14,  page  44,  col.  2. 
Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  delight. 
"  J'aime  beaucoup  ce  tounioiement,  pourvu  que  je 
gois  en  siirele." — Les  Confessions,  1.  iv. 

Note  15,  page  44,  col.  2. 

just  where  the  Abbot  fell. 

'*  Ou  il  y  a  en\-iron  dix  ans,  que  I'abbe  de  St.  Mau- 
rice, M.  Cocatrix,  a  ete  precipite  avec  sa  voiture,  ses 
chevaux,  sa  cuisiniere,  et  son  cocher." — Descript.  du 
Valais,  p.  120. 

Note  16,  page  45,  col.  1. 
Painted  by  Cagliari. 
Commonly  called  Paul  Veronese. 

Note  17,  page  45,  col.  1. 


quaffing  gramolata. 

A  sherbet  half-frozen. 

Note  18,  page  45,  col.  2. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  Minstrelsy. 
Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.  Sen.  1.  v,  ep.  3. 

Note  19,  page  45,  col.  2. 
Before  the  great  Mastino. 

Mastino  de  la  Scala,  the  Lord  of  Verona.  Cortusio, 
the  ambassador  and  historian,  saw  him  so  surround- 
ed—L.  6. 

This  house  had  been  alwax^s  open  to  the  unfortu- 
nate. In  the  da\'s  of  Can  Grande,  all  were  welcome ; 
Poets,  Philosophers,  Artists,  Warriors.  Each  had  his 
apartment,  each  a  separate  table ;  and  at  the  hour  of 
dinner,  musicians  and  jesters  went  from  room  to 
room.  Dante,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  found  an 
asylum  there. 

Lo  primo  tuo  rifugio,  e'l  primo  ostello 
Sark  la  cortesia  del  gran  Lombardo, 
Che'n  su  la  scala  porta  il  santo  uccelle. 

Their  tombs  in  the  public  street  carry  us  back  into 
the  times  of  barbarous  virtue ;  nor  less  so  do  those  of 
the  Carrara  Princes  at  Padua,  though  less  singular 
and  striking  in  themselves.  Francis  Carrara,  the 
Elder,  used  often  to  visit  Petrarch  in  his  small  house 
at  Arqua,  and  followed  him  on  foot  to  his  grave. 

Note  20,  page  46,  col.  1. 

And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  Masque. 

The  old  Palace  of  the  Cappalletti,  with  its  uncouth 

balcony  and  irregular  windows,  is  still  standing  in  a 

lane  near  the  market-place ;  and  what  Englishman 

can  behold  it  with  indifference  ? 

When  we  enter  Verona,  we  forget  ourselves,  and 
are  almost  inclined  to  say  with  Dante, 

Vieni  a  veder  Montecchi,  e  Cappalletti. 

Note  21,  page  46,  col.  1. 

Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself. 
It  has  been  observed  that  in  Italy  the  memory  sees 
more  than  the  eye.  Scarcely  a  stone  is  turned  up  that 
has  not  some  historical  association,  ancient  or  modern  ; 
that  may  not  be  said  to  have  gold  mider  it. 

Note  22,  page  46,  col.  1. 

Twice  hast  thou  lived  already ; 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world. 
All  our  travellers,  from  Addison  downward,  have 
diligently  explored  the  monuments  of  her  former  ex- 
'^tence  ,•  while  those  of  he-  Matter  have,  comparatively 


speaking,  escaped  observation.  If  I  cannot  supply  the 
deficiency,  I  will  not  follow  their  example  ;  and  hap- 
py should  I  be,  if  by  an  intermixture  of  verse  and 
prose,  of  prose  illustrating  the  verse,  and  verse  em- 
f  allishing  the  prose,  I  could  furnish  my  countrymen 
on  their  travels  with  a  pocket-companion. 

Note  23,  page  46,  col.  2. 

In  this  neglected  mirror. 

As  this  is  the  only  instance,  wth  which  I  am  ac- 
quainted, of  a  Ghost  in  Italy  since  Brutus  sat  in  his 
tent,  I  give  it  as  I  received  it ;  though  in  the  catas- 
trophe I  have  been  anticipated  by  a  distinguished 
writer  of  the  present  day. 

It  was  first  mentioned  to  me  by  a  friend,  as  we 
were  crossing  the  Apennines  together. 

Note  24,  page  47,  col.  1. 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  Castle-wall. 
Murato  was  a  technical  word  for  this  punishment 
in  Italy. 

Note  25,  page  47,  col.  1. 

Issuing  forth. 

An  old  huntsman  of  the  family  met  her  in  the  haze 
of  the  morning,  and  never  went  out  again. 
She  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  Madonna  Bianca. 

Note  26,  page  47,  col.  1. 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art. 
Several  were  painted  by  Giorgione  and  Titian ;  as, 
for  instance,  those  of  the  Fondaco  de  Tedeschi  and 
the  Ca'  Grimani. — See  Vasari. 

Note  27,  page  47,  col.  1. 

the  tower  of  Ezzelin — 

Now  an  Observatory.  On  the  wall  there  is  a  long 
inscription:  "  Piis  carcerem  adspergite  lacrj'mis,"  etc. 
Ezzelino  is  seen  by  Dante  in  the  river  of  blood. — 
Inferno,  xii. 

Note  28,  page  47,  col.  2. 
A  vagrant  crew,  and  careless  of  to-morrow. 
"  Douze  personnes,  tant  acteurs  qu'actrices,  im 
souffleur,  un  machiniste,  im  garde  du  magasin,  des 
enfans  de  tout  age,  des  chiens,  des  chats,  des  singes, 
des  perroquets ;  c'etoit  I'arche  de  Noe. — Ma  predi- 
lection pour  les  soubrettes  m'arreta  sur  Madame 
Baccherini." — Goldom. 

Note  29,  page  47,  col.  2. 

The  lagging  mules 

The  passage-boats  are  drawn  up  and  dowTi  the 
Brenta. 

Note  30,  page  47,  col.  2. 
That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino. 
A  pleasant  instance  of  his  wit  and  agility  was  ex- 
liibitcd  some  years  ago  on  the  stage  at  Venice. 

"  The  stutterer  was  in  an  agony ;  the  word  was  in- 
exorable. It  was  to  no  purpose  that  Harlequin  sug- 
gested another  and  another.  At  length,  in  a  fit  of 
despair,  he  pitched  his  head  full  in  the  dying  man's 
stomach,  and  the  word  bolted  out  of  his  mouth  to 
the  most  distant  part  of  the  house  " — See  Moore's 
View  of  Society  in  Italy. 

Note  31,  page  47,  col.  2. 
A  vast  Metropolis. 
"I  love,"  savs  a  late  traveller,  "to  contemplate,  a.H 

88 


ITALY. 


81 


I  float  along,  that  multitude  of  palaces  and  churches, 
which  are  congregated  and  pressed  as  on  a  vast  raft." 
— "  And  who,"  says  another,  "  can  forget  his  walk 
through  the  Merceria,  where  the  nightingales  give 
you  their  melody  from  shop  to  shop,  so  that,  shutting 
your  eyes,  you  would  think  yourself  in  some  forest- 
glade,  when  indeed  you  are  all  the  while  in  the  middle 
of  the  sea  I  Who  can  forget  liis  prospect  from  the 
great  tower,  which  once,  when  gilt,  and  when  the 
sun  struck  upon  it,  was  to  be  descried  by  ships  afar 
off;  or  his  visit  to  St.  Mark's  church,  where  you  see 
nothing,  tread  on  nothing,  but  what  is  precious ;  the 
floor  ail  agate,  jasper ;  the  roof  mosaic ;  the  aisle  hung 
with  the  banners  of  the  subject  cities ;  the  front  and 
its  five  domes  affecting  you  as  the  work  of  some 
unknown  people  ?  Yet  all  this  will  presently  pass 
away ;  the  waters  will  close  over  it ;  and  they,  that 
come,  row  about  in  vain  to  determine  exactly  where 
it  stood." 

Note  32,  page  47,  col.  2. 

Ere  yet  the  Cafila  came. 

A  Caravan. 

Note  33,  page  48,  col.  2. 
Playing  at  Mora. 
A  national  game  of  great  antiquity,  and  most  prob- 
ably the  "  micare  digitis  "  of  the  Romans. 

Note  34,  page  48,  col.  2. 

twelve  Procurators. 

The  procuratorship  of  St.  Mark  was  the  second 
dignity  in  the  Republic. 

Note  35,  page  49,  col.  1. 
The  braos  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains. 
They  were  placed  in  the  floor  as  memorials.  The 
brass  was  engraven  with  the  words  addressed  by  the 
pope  to  the  Emperor,  "  Super  aspidem,"  etc. 

Note  36,  page  49,  col.  1. 
Of  the  proud  Pontifl— 
Alexander  III.  He  fled  in  disguise  to  Venice,  and 
is  said  to  have  passed  the  first  night  on  the  steps  of 
San  Salvatore.  The  entrance  is  from  the  Merceria, 
near  the  foot  of  the  Rialto ;  and  it  is  thus  recorded, 
under  his  escutcheon,  in  a  small  tablet  at  the  door : 
Alexandre  III.  Pont.  Max.  pernoctanti. 

Note  37,  page  49,  col.  1. 

resounding  with  their  feet. 

See  Petrarch's  description  of  them,  and  of  the  tour- 
nament.— Rer.  Senil.  1.  4,  ep.  2. 

Note  38,  page  49,  col.  1. 

some  from  merry  England. 

"  Recenti  victoria  exultantes,"  says  Petrarch,  al- 
luding, no  doubt,  to  tlie  favorable  issue  of  the  war 
in  France.  This  festival  began  on  the  4th  of  August, 
1364. 

Note  39,  page  49,  col.  1. 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  Carnival. 
Among  those  the  most  followed,  there  was  always 
a  mask  in  a  magnificent  habit,  relating  marvellous 
adventures  and  calling  himself  Messer  Marco  Mil 
lioni.  Millioni  was  the  name  given  by  his  fellow 
citizens  in  his  life-time  to  the  great  traveller,  Marco 
Polo.  "  I  have  seen  him  so  described,"  says  Pcamusio 
12  H2 


in  the  records  of  the  Republic ;  and  his  house  has, 
from  that  time  to  this,  been  called  La  Corte  del  Mil- 
lioni," the  house  of  the  rich  man,  the  millionnaire. 
It  is  on  the  canal  of  S.  Giovanni  Chrisostomo :  and, 
as  long  as  he  lived,  was  much  resorted  to  by  the 
cvurious  and  the  learned. 

Note  40,  page  49,  col.  2. 
Down  which  the  grizzly  head  of  old  Faliero 
Roll'd  from  the  block. 
Of  him  and  his  conspiracy  I  had  given  a  brief  aC' 
count ;  but  he  is  now  universally  known  through  a 
Writer,  whose  poetical  talents  command  as   much 
the  admiration  of  other  countries  as  of  his  own. 

Note  41,  page  49,  col.  2. 
A  short  inscription  on  the  Doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  un  the  wall  yet  shorter. 
Marino  Faliero  dalla  bclla  moglie :  altri  la  gode  ed 
egli  la  mantiene. 

Locus  Manni  Faletri,  decapitati  pro  criminibus. 


Note  42,  page  49,  col.  2. 

Carmagnola. 
"  II  Conte,  entrando  in  prigione,  disse  :  Vedo  bene 
clii'o  son  morto,  e  trasse  un  gran  sospiro." — Sanuto. 

Note  43,  page  49,  col.  2. 
And  bore  away  to  the  canal  Orfaoo. 
A  deep  chaimel  behind  the  island  of  S.  Giorgo 
Maggiore. 

Note  44,  page  50,  col.  1. 

"  Who  were  the  Six  we  supp'd  with  yesternight  7" 

An  allusion  to  the  Supper  in  Candide. — C.  xxvi 

Note  45,  page  50,  col.  1. 
"  W^ho  answer'd  me  just  now  7" 
See  Schiller's  Ghost-seer. — C.  i. 

Note  46,  page  50,  col.  1. 

"But  who  stands  there,  alone  among  them  all?" 

See  the  history  of  Bragadino,  the  Alchymist,  as 
related  by  Daru. — Hisl.de  Venise,  c.  28. 

A  person  yet  more  extraordinary  is  said  to  have 
appeared  there  in  1687. 

"  Those,  w  ho  have  experienced  the  advantages 
which  all  strangers  enjoy  in  that  City,  will  not  be 
surprised  that  one  who  went  by  the  name  of  Signer 
Gualdi  was  admitted  into  the  best  company,  though 
none  knew  who  or  what  he  was.  He  remained  there 
some  months ;  and  three  things  were  remarked  con- 
cerning him — that  he  had  a  small  but  inestimable 
collection  of  pictures,  which  he  readily  showed  to  any 
body — that  he  spoke  on  every  subject  with  such  a 
mastery  as  astonished  all  who  heard  him — and  that 
he  never  wrote  or  received  any  letter,  never  re- 
quired any  credit  or  used  any  bills  of  exchange,  but 
paid  for  everything  in  ready  money,  and  lived  re- 
spectably, though  not  splendidly. 

'•  This  gentleman  being  one  day  at  the  coffee-house, 
a  Venetian  nobleman,  wlio  was  an  excellent  judge 
of  pictures,  and  who  had  heard  of  Signor  Gualdi's 
collection,  expressed  a  desire  to  see  them ;  and  his 
request  was  instantly  granted.  After  contemplating 
and  admiring  them  for  some  time,  he  happened  to 
cast  his  eyes  over  the  chamber-door,  where  hung  a 
portrait  of  the  Stranger.  The  \"enetian  looked  upon 
i  it,  and  then  upon  him.    '  This  is  your  portrait,  Sir 

89 


82 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


said  he  to  Signer  Gualdi.  The  other  made  no  answer 
btit  by  a  low  bow.  '  Yet  you  look,'  he  continued, 
'  like  a  man  of  fifty ;  and  I  know  this  picture  to  be 
of  the  hand  of  Titian,  who  has  been  dead  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty  years.  How  is  this  possible  ?'  'It  is 
not  easy,'  said  Signer  Gualdi  gravely,  '  to  Imow  all 
things  that  are  possible ;  but  there  is  certainly  no 
crime  in  my  being  like  a  picture  of  Titian's.'  The 
Venetian  perceived  that  he  had  given  offence,  and 
look  his  leave. 

"  In  the  evening  he  could  not  forbear  mentioning 
what  had  passed  to  some  of  his  friends,  who  resolved 
to  satisfy  themselves  the  next  day  by  seeing  the  pic- 
ture. For  this  purpose  they  went  to  the  coffee-house 
about  the  time  that  Signer  Gualdi  was  accustomed 
to  come  there ;  and,  not  meeting  with  him,  inquired 
at  his  lodgnigs,  where  they  learned  that  he  had  set 
out  an  hour  before  for  Vienna.  This  affair  made  a 
great  stir  at  the  time." 

Note  47,  page  50,  col.  1. 

All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere. 
A  Frenchman  of  high  rank,  who  had  been  robbed 
at  Venice,  and  had  complained  in  conversation  of  the 
negligence  of  the  Police,  was  on  his  way  back  to 
the  Terra  Firma,  when  his  gondola  stopped  suddenly 
in  the  midst  of  the  waves.  He  inquired  the  reason ; 
and  his  gondoliers  pointed  to  a  boat  with  a  red  flag, 
that  had  just  made  them  a  signal.  It  arrived ;  and 
he  was  called  on  board.  "  You  are  the  Prince  de 
Craon  ?  Were  you  not  robbed  on  Friday  evening  ? — 
I  was. — Of  what  ? — Of  five  hundred  ducats. — And 
where  were  they  ? — In  a  green  purse. — Do  j'ou  sus- 
pect any  body  ? — I  do,  a  servant. — Would  you  know 
him  again  ? — Certainly."  The  Interrogator  with  his 
foot  turned  aside  an  old  cloak  that  lay  there  ;  and  the 
Prince  beheld  his  purse  in  the  hand  of  a  dead  man. 
"Take  it;  and  remember  that  none  set  their  feet 
again  in  a  country  where  they  have  presumed  to 
doubt  the  wisdom  of  the  government." 

Note  48,  page  50,  col.  2. 

his  lay  of  love. 

La  Biondina  in  Gondoletta. 

Note  49,  page  50,  col.  2. 

Those  Porches. 
In  the  Piazzetta.    "C'etait  sous  les  portiques  de 
Saint-INIarc  que  les  palriciens  se  reunissaient  tous  les 
jours.    Le  nom  de  cette  promenade  indiquait  sa  des- 
tination ;  on  I'appellait  il  Broglio." — Daru. 

Note  50,  page  50,  col.  2. 
Then  in  close  converse. 
I  am  indebted  for  this  thought  to  some  unpublished 
travels  by  the  author  of  Vathek. 

Note  51,  page  50,  col.  2. 

and  he  sung. 

As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself. 

Goldoni,  describing  his  excursion  with  the  Pas- 
salacqua,  has  left  us  a  lively  picture  of  this  class  of 
men. 

We  were  no  sooner  in  the  middle  of  that  great 
lagoon  Avliich  encircles  the  City,  than  our  discreet 
gondolier  d/ew  the  curtain  behind  us,  and  let  us  float 
at  the  will  of  the  waves. — At  length  night  came  on, 
aiid  we  ( ould  not  tell  where  we  were.  "  Whax  is  the 


hour  ?"  said  I  to  the  gondolier.  "  I  cannot  guess,  Sir-, 
but,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  the  lover's  hour." — 
"  Let  us  go  home,"  I  replied  ;  and  he  turned  the  prow 
homeward,  singing,  as  he  rowed,  the  twenty-sixth 
strophe  of  the  sixteenth  canto  of  the  Jerusalem  De- 
livered. 

Note  52,  page  51,  col.  1. 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door. 
Bianca  Capello.  It  had^been  shut  by  a  baker's  boy, 
as  he  passed  by,  at  day-break ;  and  in  her  despair  she 
fled  with  her  lover  to  Florence,  where  he  fell  by  as- 
sassination. Her  beauty,  and  her  love-adventure  as 
here  related,  her  marriage  afterwards  wdth  the  Grand 
Duke,  and  that  fatal  banquet  at  which  they  were  both 
poisoned  by  the  Cardinal,  his  brother,  have  rendered 
her  history  a  romance.  The  Capello  Palace  is  on 
the  Canale  di  Canonico ;  and  the  postern-door,  la 
porta  di  strada,  is  still  on  its  hinges.  It  opens  into 
one  of  those  narrow  alleys  so  numerous  at  Venice. 

Note  53,  page  51,  col.  1. 
It  was  St.  Mary's  Eve. 


This  circumstance  took  place  at  Venice  on  the  first 
of  February,  the  eve  of  the  feast  of  the  Purification 
of  the  Virgin,  A.  D.  944,  Pietro  Candiano,  Doge. 

Note  54,  page  51,  col.  1. 
Such  splendor,  or  such  beauty. 
"  E'l  costume  era,  che  tutte  le  novizzie  con  tutta  la 
dote  lore  venissero  alia  detta  Cliiesa,  dov'era  il  ves- 
covo  con  tutta  la  chieresia." — Sanuto. 

Note  55,  page  51,  col.  1. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer. 
Among  the  Habiti  Antichi,  in  that  admirable  book 
of  wood-cuts  ascribed  to  Titian  (A.  D.  1590),  there 
is  one  entitled  Sposa  Venetiana  a  Castello.  It  was 
taken  from  an  old  painting  in  the  Scuola  di  S.  Gio- 
vanni Evangelista,  and  by  the  Writer  is  believed  to 
represent  one  of  the  Brides  here  described. 

Note  56,  page  51,  col.  2. 

That  venerable  pile  on  the  sea-brink. 
San  Pietro  di  Castello,  the  Patriarchal  church  of 
Venice. 

Note  57,  page  51,  col.  2. 
Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley. 
"Una  galera  e  una  galeotta." — Sanuto. 

Note  58,  page  52,  col.  1. 

Laid  at  his  feet. 

Tliey  were  to  be  seen  in  the  treasury  of  St.  Mark 
very  lately. 

Note  59,  page  52,  col.  1. 
And  through  the  city  in  a  stately  barge. 
"Le  quali  con  trionfo  si  conducessero  sopra  una  piatta 
pe  'canali  di  Venezia  con  suoni  e  canti." — Sanuto. 

Note  60,  page  52,  col.  1. 

the  Rialto. 

An  English  abbreviation.  Rialto  is  the  name  of 
the  island  from  which  the  bridge  is  called ;  and  the 
Venetians  say  il  ponte  di  Rialto,  as  we  say  West- 
minster-bridge. 

In  that  island  is  the  Exchange ;  and  I  have  often 

90 


ITALY. 


83 


walked  there  as  on  classic  ground.  In  the  days  of 
Antonio  and  Bassanio  it  was  second  to  none.  "I  sotto- 
portichi,"  says  Sansovino,  writing  in  loSO,  "  sono 
ogni  giomo  frequentati  da  i  mercatanti  Fiorentini, 
Genovesi,  Milanesi,  Spagnuoli,  Turchi,  e  d'altre  na- 
tioni  diverse  del  mondo,  i  quali  vi  concorrono  in  tanta 
copia,  che  questa  piazza  e  annoverata  fra  le  prime  dell' 
universo."  It  was  there  that  the  Christian  held  dis- 
course with  the  Jew ;  and  Shylock  refers  to  it,  when 
he  says, 

Signer  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft. 

In  the  Rialto  you  have  rated  me — 

"  Andiamo  a  Rialto" — "  L'ora  di  Rialto" — were  on 
every  tongue ;  and  continue  so  to  the  present  day, 
as  we  may  conclude  from  the  comedies  of  Goldoni, 
and  particularly  from  his  Mercanti. 

There  is  a  place  adjoining,  called  Rialto  Nuovo  ; 
and  so  called,  according  to  Sansovino,  "  perche  fu 
fabbricato  dopo  il  vecchio." 

Note  61,  page  52,  col.  1. 

Twenty  are  sitting  as  in  judgment  there. 

The  CoTuicil  of  Ten  and  the  Giunta,  "nel  quale," 

says  Sanuto,  "  fu  messer  lo  doge."    The  Giunta  at 

the  first  examination  consisted  of  ten  Patricians,  at 

the  last  of  tw  enty. 

Note  62,  page  52,  col.  2. 

that  maid,  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest. 

She  was  a  Contarini ;  a  name  coeval  with  the  Re- 
public, and  illustrated  by  eight  Doges.  On  the  oc- 
casion of  their  marriage,  the  Bucentaur  came  out  in 
its  splendor ;  and  a  bridge  of  boats  was  thrown  across 
the  Canal  Grande  for  the  Bridegroom  and  his  retinue 
of  three  hundred  horse.  Sanuto  dwells  with  pleasure 
on  the  costliness  of  the  dresses  and  the  magnificence 
of  the  processions  by  land  and  water.  The  tourna- 
ments in  the  Place  of  St.  Mark  lasted  three  days, 
and  were  attended  by  thirty  thousand  people. 

Note  63,  page  53,  col.  1. 
I  have  transgress'd,  offended,  wilfully. 
It  was  a  high  crime  to  solicit  the  intercession  of 
any  Foreign  Prince. 

Note  64,  page  53,  col.  2. 

the  Invisible  Three. 

The  State-Inquisitors.  For  an  account  of  their 
authority,  see  page  52. 

Note  65,  page  53,  col.  2. 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  altar. 
He  was  at  mass. — Sanuto. 

Note  66,  page  54,  col.  1. 
And  in  his  ledger-book. 
A  remarkable  instance,  among  others  in  the  annals 
of  Venice,  that  her  princes  were  merchants. 

Note  67,  page  54,  col.  1. 

And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flock'd. 

I  visited  once  more,  says  Alfieri,  the  tomb  of  our 

master  in  love,  the  divine  Petrarch ;  and  there,  as  at 

Ravenna,  consecrated  a  day  to  meditation  and  verse. 

Note  68,  page  54,  col.  1. 
Its  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown. 
The  Cote  Rotie,  the  Henmtage,  etc. 


Note  69,  page  54,  col.  2. 

Neglect  to  visit  Arqua. 
This  village,  says  Boccaccio,  hitherto  almost  un- 
known even  at  Padua,  is  soon  to  become  famous 
through  the  World ;  and  the  sailor  on  the  Adriatic 
will  prostrate  himself,  when  he  discovers  the  Eu- 
ganean  hills.  "  Among  them,"  will  he  say,  "  sleeps 
the  Poet  who  is  our  glorj'.  Ah,  unhappy  Florence ! 
You  neglected  him — You  deserved  him  not." 

Note  70,  page  54,  col.  2. 
Half-way  up 
He  built  his  house. 

"  I  have  built,  among  the  Euganean  hills,  a  small 
house  decent  and  proper ;  in  which  I  hope  to  pass  the 
rest  of  my  days,  thinking  always  of  my  dead  or  absent 
friends." 

When  the  Venetians  overran  the  country,  Petrarch 
prepared  for  flight.  "  Write  your  name  over  your 
door,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  "and  you  will  be  safe." 
"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Petrarch,  and  fled 
with  his  books  to  Padua. 

His  books  he  left  to  the  Republic  of  Venice ;  but 
they  exist  no  longer.  His  legacy  to  Francis  Carrara, 
a  Madonna  painted  by  Giotto,  is  still  preserved  in 
the  cathedral  of  Padua. 

Note  71,  page  54,  col.  2. 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt. 
See  an  Essay  on  his  Character,  lately  written  by  a 
Man  no  less  eminent  for  his  learning  than  his  genius 
Ugo  Foscolo. 

Note  72,  page  54,  col.  2. 

— In  its  chain  it  hangs. 

Aflirming  itself  to  Ije  the  very  bucket  w^hich  Tas- 

soni  in  his  mock  heroics  has  celebrated  as  the  cause 

of  war  between  Bologna  and  Modena  five  hundred 

years  ago.    If  true,  it  is  in  wonderful  preservation 


Note  73,  page  54,  col.  2. 
Done  by  Zampieri — 
Commonly  called  Domenichino. 

Note  74,  page  56,  col.  2. 
And  what  a  glorious  lustre  did  it  shed. 
Among  other  instances  of  her  ascendency  at  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  it  is  related  that 
Florence  saw  twelve  of  her  citizens  assembled  at  the 
Court  of  Boniface  the  Eighth,  as  Ambassadors  from 
diflferent  parts  of  Europe  and  Asia.  Their  names  are 
mentioned  in  Toscana  Illustrala. 

Note  75,  page  5%,  col.  2. 
In  this  chapel  wrought. 

A  chapel  of  the  Holy  Virgin  in  the  church  of  the 
Carmelites.  It  is  adorned  with  his  paintings,  and  all 
the  great  artists  of  Florence  studied  there  ;  Lionardo 
da  Vinci,  Fra  Bartolomeo,  Andrea  del  Sarto,  Michael 
Angelo,  Raphael,  etc. 

He  had  no  stone,  no  inscription,  says  one  of  his 
biographers,  for  he  was  thought  httle  of  in  his  Lfo- 
time. 

Se  alcun  cercasse  il  marmo,  o  il  noma  mio. 
La  Chiesa  e  il  marmo,  una  cappella  e  il  nome. 

It  was  there  that  Michael  Angelo  received  the  blow 
in  his  face. — See  Vasari  and  Cellini. 

91 


84 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  76,  page  56,  col.  2. 
Would  Dante  sit  conversing. 
A  tradition. 

Note  77,  page  56,  col.  2. 
Hadst  plagued  him  sore,  and  carefully  requiting. 

After  this  line,  read  as  follows  : 

Such  as  condemn'd  his  mortal  part  to  fire  : 

Many  a  transgressor  sent  to  his  account. 

Long  ere  in  Florence  number'd  with  the  dead  ; 

The  body  still  as  full  of  life  and  stir 

At  home,  abroad  ;  still  and  as  oft  inclined 

To  eat,  drink,  sleep  ;  still  clad  as  others  were, 

And  at  noon-day,  where  men  were  wont  to  meet, 

Met  as  continually  ;  when  the  soul  went, 

Relinquish'd  to  a  demon,  and  by  him 

(So  says  the  Bard,  and  who  can  read  and  doubt?) 

Dwelt  in  and  govern'd. 

Sit  thee  down  awhile  ; 
Then  by  thy  gates  so  beautiful,  so  glorious,  etc. 

A  more  dreadful  vehicle  for  satire  cannot  well  be 
conceived. 

Note  78,  page  56,  col.  2. 

condemn'd  his  mortal  part 

To  fire. 

In  1302,  he  was  sentenced,  if  taken,  to  be  burned. 


Note  79,  page  56,  col.  2 


Inferno,  xix. 


-he  flew  and  saved  him. 


Note  80,  page  56,  col.  2. 
Nor  then  forget  that  Chamber  of  the  Dead. 
The  Chapel  de'  Deposit! ;  in  which  are  the  tombs 
of  the  Medici,  bj'  Michael  Angelo. 

Note  81,  page  56,  col.  2. 

That  is  the  Duke  Lorenzo.  Mark  him  well. 

He  died  early ;  living  only  to  become  the  father 

of  Catharine  de  Medicis.  Had  an  evil  spirit  assumed 

the  human  shape  to  propagate  mischief,  he  could  not 

have  done  better. 

The  statue  is  larger  than  the  life,  but  not  so  large 
as  to  shock  behef.  It  is  the  most  real  and  unreal 
thing  that  ever  came  from  the  chisel. 

Note  82,  page  57,  col.  1. 
On  that  thrice-hallow'd  day. 
The  day  of  All  Souls.    II  dl  de'  Morti. 

Note  83,  page  57,  col.  1. 
It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  wall. 
Exoriare  aliquis  nostris  ex  ossibus  ultor. 
Perhaps  there  is  nothing  in  language  more  affect- 
ing than  his  last  testament.    It  is  addressed  "To  God, 
the  Deliverer,"  and  was  found  steeped  in  his  blood. 

Note  84,  page  57,  col.  1. 

That  Cosmo. 

The  first  Grand  Duke. 

Note  85,  page  57,  col.  1. 

Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  Chronicler. 

The  President  De  Thou.    Alfieri  has  written  a 

tragedy  on  the  subject ;  if  it  may  be  said  so,  when  he 

aas  altered  so  entirely  the  story  and  the  characters. 

Note  86,  page  57,  col.  1. 

the  disconsolate  Mother. 

Of  the  children  that  survived  her,  one  fell  by  a 


brother,  one  by  a  husband,  and  a  third  murdered  his 

fe. 

Bui  that  family  was  soon  to  become  extinct.  It  is 
so  ae  consolation  to  reflect  that  their  Country  did  not 
go  unrevenged  for  the  calamities  which  they  had 
brought  upon  her.  How  many  of  them  died  by  the 
hands  of  each  other  I — 

Note  87,  page  57,  col.  2. 
The  Ancient  Palace. 
The  Palazzo  Vecchio.    Cosmo  had  left  it  several 
years  before. 

Note  88,  page  57,  col.  2. 


-drawn  on  the  wall. 


By  Vasari. 

Note  89,  page  57,  col.  2. 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew. 
It  was  given  out  that  they  had  died  of  a  contagious 
fever ;  and  funeral  orations  were  publicly  pronoimced 
in  their  honor. 

Note  90,  page  57,  col.  2. 
Cimabue. 

He  was  the  father  of  modern  painting,  and  the 
master  of  Giotto,  whose  talent  he  discovered  in  the 
way  here  alluded  to. 

"  Cimabue  stood  still,  and,  having  considered  the 
boy  and  his  work,  he  asked  him,  if  he  would  go  and 
live  with  him  at  Florence  ?  To  which  the  boy  an- 
swered that,  if  his  father  was  willing,  he  would  go 
with  all  his  heart." — Vasari. 

Of  Cimabue  little  now  remains  at  Florence,  except 
his  celebrated  Madonna,  larger  than  the  life,  in  Santa 
Maria  Novella-  It  was  painted,  according  to  Vasari, 
in  a  garden  near  Porta  S.  Piero,  and,  when  finished, 
was  carried  to  the  church  in  solemn  procession  with 
trumpets  before  it.  The  garden  lay  without  the  walls ; 
and  such  was  the  rejoicing  there  on  the  occasion, 
that  the  suburb  received  the  name  of  Borgo  Allegri, 
a  name  it  still  bears,  though  now  a  part  of  the  city. 

Note  91,  page  57,  coL  2. 
Beautiful  Florence. 
It  is  somewhere  mentioned  that  Michael  Angelo, 
when  he  set  out  from  Florence  to  build  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's,  turned  his  horse  round  in  the  road  to 
contemplate  once  more  that  of  the  cathedral,  as  it 
rose  in  the  grey  of  the  morning  from  among  the 
pines  and  cypresses  of  the  city,  and  that  he  said  after 
a  pause,  "  Come  te  non  voglio !  Meglio  di  le  non 
posso !"'  He  never  indeed  spoke  of  it  but  with  ad- 
miration ;  and  if  we  may  believe  tradition,  his  tomb 
by  his  owTi  desire  was  to  be  so  placed  in  the  Santa 
Croce  as  that  from  it  might  be  seen,  when  the  doors 
of  the  church  stood  open,  that  noble  work  of  Bru- 
neleschi. 

Note  92,  page  57,  col.  2. 

that  church  among  the  rest. 

Santa  Maria  Novella.  For  its  grace  and  beauty  it 
was  called  by  Michael  Angelo  "  La  Sposa."     • 

Note  93,  page  57,  col  2. 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin-prayers. 
In  the  year  of  the  Great  Plague. 


•  Like  thee  I  will  not  build  one.  Better  than  thee  I  cannot. 

92 


ITALY. 


85 


Note  94,  page  58,  col.  1. 

Came  out  into  the  meadows. 
Once,  on  a  bright  November  morning,  I  set  out 
and  traced  them,  as  I  conceived,  step  by  step ;  be- 
ginning and  ending  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella.  It  was  a  walk  delightful  in  itself,  and  in 
its  associations. 

Note  95,  page  58,  col.  1. 

Round  the  hill  they  went. 
I  have  here  followed  Baldelli.  It  has  been  said 
that  Boccaccio  drew  from  his  imagination.  But  is  it 
likely,  when  he  and  his  readers  were  living  within 
a  mile  or  two  of  the  spot?  Truth  or  fiction,  it  fur- 
nishes a  pleasant  picture  of  the  manners  and  amuse- 
ments of  the  Florentines  in  that  day. 

Note  96,  page  58,  col.  1. 
The  moming-banquet  by  the  fountain-side. 
Three  hours  after  sun-rise. 

Note  97,  page  58,  col.  1. 
The  Friar  pour'd  out  his  catalogue  of  treasures. 
See  the  Decameron,  vi.  10. 

Note  98,  page  58,  col.  1. 

his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm. 

Now  belonging  by  inheritance  to  the  Rangoni,  a 
Modenese  family. 

Note  99,  page  58,  col.  1. 

'Tis  his  own  sketch — he  drew  it  from  himself. 

See  a  very  interesting  letter  from  Machiavel  to 

Francesco  Vettori,  dated  the  10th  of  December,  1513. 

Note  100,  page  58,  col.  2. 

sung  of  old 

For  its  green  wine — 
La  Verdea.     It  is  celebrated  by  Rinuccini,  Redi, 
and  most  of  the  Tuscan  Poets. 

Note  101,  page  58,  col.  2. 

Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city-gate. 

Galileo  came  to  Arcetri  at  the  close  of  the  year 

1633 ;  and  remained   there,  while  he  lived,  by  an 

order  of  the  Inquisition.  It  is  without  the  walls,  near 

the  Porta  Romana. 

He  was  buried,  with  all  honor,  in  the  church  of 
the  Santa  Croce. 

Note  102,  page  58,  col.  2. 
His  cottage  (justly  was  it  call'd  The  Jewel). 
n  Giojello. 

Note  103,  page  58,  col.  2. 
There,  unseen. 
Milton  went  to  Italy  in  1638.  "There  it  was," 
says  he,  "  that  I  found  and  visited  the  famous  Galileo, 
grown  old,  a  prisoner  to  the  Inquisition."  "  Old  and 
blind,"  he  might  have  said.  Galileo,  by  his  own  ac- 
count, became  blind  in  December,  1637.  Milton,  as 
we  learn  from  the  date  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter 
to  him,  had  riot  left  England  on  the  18th  of  April 
following. — See  Tiraboschi,  and  Wotton's  Remains. 

Note  104,  page  58,  col.  2. 

So  near  the  yellow  Tibcr,'s — 

They  rise  within  thirteen  miles  of  each  other. 


Note  105,  page  58,  col.  2. 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits. 
II  Sagro  Eremo. 

Note  106,  page  58,  col.  2. 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring. 
It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  first  Sforza  went 
down,  when  he  perished  in  the  Pescara. 

Note  107,  page  58,  col.  2. 
Oft,  as  that  great  Artist  saw. 
What  follows  is  a  description  of  the  Cartoon  of  Pisa. 

Note  108,  page  59,  col.  1. 
And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea. 
Petrarch,  as  we  learn  from  himself,  was  on  his 
w^ay  to  Incisa;  whither  his  mother  was  retiring.    He 
was  seven  months  old  at  the  time. 

Note  109,  page  59,  col.  1. 
Reclined  beside  thee. 
O  ego  quantus  eram,  gelidi  cum  stratus  ad  Ami 
Murmura,  etc.  Epitaphium  Damonis. 

Note  110,  page  59,  col.  1. 

Towerless. 

There  were  the  "  Nobili  di  Torre  "  and  the  "  No 
bili  di  Loggia." 

Note  111,  page  59,  col  2- 
At  the  bridge-foot. 

Giovanni  Buondelmonte  was  on  the  point  of  mar- 
rying an  Amidei,  when  a  widow  of  the  Donati  family 
made  him  break  his  engagement  in  the  manner  here 
described. 

The  Amidei  washed  away  the  aftront  wdth  his 
blood,  attacking  him,  says  Villani,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Ponte  Vecchio ;  and  hence  the  wars  of  the  Guelphs 
and  the  Ghibellines. 

O  Buondelmonte,  quanto  mal  fuggisti 

Le  nozze  sue,  per  gli  altrui  conforti !       Dante. 

Note  112,  page  59,  col.  2. 
It  had  been  well,  hadst  thou  slept  on,  Imelda. 
The  story  is  Bolognese,  and  is  told  by  Cherubino 
Ghiradacci  in  his  history  of  Bologna.  Her  lover  was 
of  the  Guelphic  party,  her  brothers  of  the  Ghibelline; 
and  no  sooner  was  this  act  of  violence  made  knov^Ti, 
than  an  enmity,  hitherto  but  half-suppressed,  broke 
out  into  open  war.  The  Great  Place  was  a  scene  of 
battle  and  bloodshed  for  forty  successive  days ;  nor 
was  a  reconciliation  accomplished  till  six  years  after- 
wards, when  the  families  and  their  adherents  met 
there  once  again,  and  exchanged  the  kiss  of  peace 
before  the  Cardinal  Legate ;  as  the  rival  families  of 
Florence  had  already  done  in  the  Place  of  S.  Maria 
Novella.  Every  house  on  the  occasion  was  hung  with 
tapestr)--  and  garlands  of  flowers. 

Note  113,  page  59,  col.  2. 

from  the  wound 

Sucking  the  poison. 

The  Saracens  had  introduced  among  them  the 
practice  of  poisoning  their  daggers. 

Note  114,  page  59,  col.  2. 

Yet,  when  Slavery  came. 

Worse  follow 'd. 
It  is  remarkable  that  the  noblest  vvorks  of  human 

93 


86 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


genius  have  been  produced  in  times  of  tnmult ;  when 
every  man  was  his  o\\ti  master,  and  all  things  were 
open  to  all.  Homer,  Dante,  and  Milton  appeared  in 
euch  times;  and  we  may  add  Virgil.' 

Note  115,  page  59,  col.  2. 
In  every  Palace  was  The  Laboratory. 
As  in  those  of  Cosmo  I.  and  his  son  Francis. — Sis- 
MONDi,  xvi,  205. 

Note  116,  page  59,  col.  2. 
Cruel  Tophana. 
A  Sicilian,  the  inventress  of  many  poisons ;  the 
most  celebrated  of  which,  from  its  transparency,  was 
called  Acquetta,  or  Acqua  Tophana. 

Note  117,  page  60,  col.  1. 

Gave  signs  infallible  of  coming  ill. 
The  Cardinal,  Ferdinand  de'  Medici,  is  said  to 
have  been  preserved  in  this  manner  by  a  ring  which 
he  wore  on  his  finger  ;  as  also  Andrea,  the  husband 
of  Giovanna,  Queen  of  Naples. 

Note  118,  page  60,  col.  1. 
One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas,  unbolted. 
n  Trabocchetto. — See  Vocab.  degli  Accadem.  deUa 
Crusca.  See  also  Did.  de  VAcaddmie  Franfaise.  Art. 
Oubliettes. 

Note  119,  page  60,  col.  1. 
There,  at  Caiano. 
Poggio-Caiano,  the  favorite  \\\]a  of  Lorenzo ;  where 
he  often  took  the  diversion  of  hawking.  Pulci  some 
times  went  out  with  him ;  though,  it  seems,  vAih 
little  ardor.  See  La  Caccia  col  Falcone,  where  he  is 
described  as  missing ;  and  as  gone  into  a  wood,  to 
rhyme  there. 

Note  120,  page  60,  col.  1. 

With  his  wild  lay 

The  Morgante  Maggiore.  He  used  to  recite  it  at 
the  table  of  Lorenzo,  in  the  manner  of  the  ancient 
Rhapsodists. 

Note  121,  page  60,  col.  1. 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills. 

Caflaggiolo,  the  favorite  retreat  of  Cosmo,  "  the  fa- 
ther of  his  coiuitry."  Eleonora  di  Toledo  was  stabbed 
there  on  the  11th  of  July,  1576,  by  her  husband, 
Pietro  de'  Medici;  and  on  the  16th  of  the  same 
month,  Isabella  de'  Medici  was  strangled  by  hers, 
Paolo  Giordano  Orsini,  at  his  villa  of  Cerreto.  They 
were  at  Florence,  when  they  were  sent  for,  each  in 
her  turn,  Isabella  imder  the  pretext  of  a  hunting- 
party;  and  each  in  her  turn  went  to  die. 

Isabella  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished women  of  the  age.  In  the  Latin,  French,  and 
Spanish  languages,  she  spoke  not  only  with  fluency, 
but  elegance ;  and  in  her  own  she  excelled  as  an 
Trapro\isatrice,  accompanying  herself  on  the  lute. 
On  her  arrival  at  dusk,  Paolo  presented  her  with  two 
beautiful  greyhounds,  that  she  might  make  a  trial  of 


1  The  Augustan  Age,  as  it  is  called,  what  was  it  but  a  dying 
blaze  of  the  Commonwealth  1  When  Augustus  began  to  reign, 
(Jicero  and  Lucretius  were  dead,  Catullus  had  written  his  sat- 
ires against  Ca;sar,  and  Horace  and  Virgil  were  no  longer  in 
fheir  first  youth.  Horace  had  served  under  Brutus ;  and  Viigil 
Bed  been  pronounced  to  be 

Magnse  spes  altera  Bomae. 


their  speed  in  the  morning ;  and  at  supper  was  gay 
beyond  measure.  When  he  retired,  he  sent  for  her 
into  his  apartment;  and,  pressing  her  tenderly  to  his 
bosom,  slipped  a  cord  roiuid  her  neck. 

Eleonora  appears  to  have  had  a  presentiment  of 
her  fate.  She  went  Avhen  required  ;  but,  before  she 
set  out,  took  leave  of  her  son,  then  a  child ;  weeping 
long  and  bitterly  over  him. 

Note  122,  page  60,  col   1. 
But  lo,  the  Sun  is  setting. 
I  have  here  endeavored  to  describe  an  Italian  sun- 
set as  I  have  often  seen  it.     The  conclusion  is  bor- 
rowed from  that  celebrated  passage  in  Dante 
Era  gicL  I'ora,  etc. 

Note  123,  page  60,  col.  2. 

when  armies  met. 

The  Roman  and  the  Carthaginian.  Such  was  the 
animosity,  says  Livy,  that  an  earthquake,  which 
turned  the  course  of  rivers  and  overthrew  cities  and 
motm tains,  was  felt  by  none  of  the  combatants,  xxii,  5. 

Note  124,  page  60,  col.  2. 
And  by  a  brook. 
It  has  been  called,  from  time  immemorial,  II  San- 
guinetto. 

Note  125,  page  61,  col.  2. 

Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice. 
An  allusion  to  the  Cascata  delle  Marmore,  a  cele- 
brated fall  of  the  Velino  near  Terni. 

Note  126,  page  61,  col.  2. 
no  bush  or  green  or  dry. 

A  sign  in  our  country  as  old  as  Shakspeare,  and 
still  used  in  Italy.  "  Une  branche  d'arbre,  attachee  a 
ime  maison  rustique,  nous  annonce  les  moyens  de 
nous  rafraichir.  Nous  y  trouvons  du  lait  et  des  oeufs 
frais  ;  nous  voila  contens." — Mdm.  de  Goldoni. 

There  is,  or  Avas  very  lately,  in  Florence  a  small 
whie-house  with  this  inscription  over  the  door,  Al 
buon  vino  non  bisogna  frasca.  Good  wine  needs  no 
bush.  It  was  much  frequented  by  Salvator  Rosa,  who 
drew  a  portrait  of  his  hostess. 

Note  127,  page  61,  col.  2. 
A  narrow  glade  unfolded,  such  as  Spring. 
This  upper  region,  a  countr}'  of  dews  and  dewy 
lights,  as  described  by  Virgil  and  Phny,  and  still,  I 
believe,  called  La  Rosa,  is  full  of  beautiful  scenery. 
Who  does  not  wish  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  Cicero 
there,  to  visit  the  Reatine  Tempe  and  the  Seven 
Waters  ? 

Note  128,  page  61,  col.  2. 

a  sumpter-mule. 

Many  of  these  circumstances  are  introduced  into  a 
landscape  of  Annibal  Carracci,  now  in  the  Louvre 

Note  129,  page  62,  col.  1. 

Filling  the  land  with  splendor — 
Perhaps  the  most  beautiful  \-illa  of  that  day  was 
the  \il\a  Madama.  It  is  now  a  ruin  ;  but  enough  re- 
mains of  the  plan  and  the  grotesque-work  to  justiiy 
Vasari's  account  of  it. 

The  Pastor  Fido,  if  not  the  Aminta,  used  to  be 
often  represented  there ;  and  a  theatre,  such  as  is 
here  described,  was  to  be  seen  in  the  gardens  very 
lately. 

94 


ITALY. 


87 


Note  130,  page  62,  col.  1. 
Fair  forms  appear'd,  murmuring  melodious  verse. 
'  A  fashion  for  ever  reviving  in  such  a  chmate.    In 

the  year  1783,  the  Nina  of  Paesiello  was  performed 
j     in  a  small  wood  near  Caserla. 

Note  131,  page  62,  col.  1. 

the  Appian. 

Tlie  Street  of  the  tombs  in  Pompeii  may  serve  to 
give  us  some  idea  of  the  Via  Appia,  that  Regina 
Viarum,  in  its  splendor.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  striking 
vestige  of  Antiquity  that  remains  to  us. 

Note  132,  page  62,  col.  2. 

Horace  himself 

And  Augustus  in  his  litter,  coming  at  a  still  slower 
rate.  He  was  borne  along  by  slaves;  and  the  gentle 
motion  allowed  him  to  read,  write,  and  employ  him- 
self as  in  his  cabinet.  Though  Tivoli  is  only  sixteen 
miles  from  the  City,  he  was  always  two  nights  on 
the  road. — Suetonius. 

Note  133,  page  62,  col.  2. 
Where  his  voice  falter'd. 
At  the  words  "  Tu  JMarcellus  eris."    The  story  is 
so  beautiful,  that  every  reader  mast  wish  it  to  be 
true. 

Note  134,  page  62,  col.  2. 

the  centre  of  their  Universe. 

From  the  golden  pillar  in  the  Forum  the  ways  ran 
to  the  gates,  and  from  the  gates  to  the  extremities  of 
the  Empire. 

Note  135,  page  62,  col.  2. 

To  the  twelve  tables. 
The  laws  of  the  twelve  tables  were  inscribed  on 
pillars  of  brass,  and  placed  in  the  most  conspicuous 
part  of  the  Forum. — Dion.  Hal. 

Note  136,  page  62,  col.  2. 
And  to  the  shepherd  on  the  Alban  mount. 
Amplitude  tanta  est,  ut  conspiciatur  a   Latiario 
Jove. — C.  Plin.  xxxiv,  7. 

Note  137,  page  62,  col.  2. 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  nisht  to  day. 
An  allusion  to  Ca3sar  in  his  Gallic  triumph.    "  Ad- 
scendit  CapitoUum  ad  lumina,"  etc.  Suetonius.  Ac- 
cording to  Dion.  Cassius,  he  went  up  on  his  Imees. 

Note  138,  page  63,  col.  1. 
'  On  those  so  young,  well-pleased  with  all  they  see. 

In  the  triumph  of  yEmilius,  nothing  affected  the 
!      Roman  people  like  the  children  of  Perseus.     Many 
wept ;  nor  could   anything   else  attract  notice,  till 
they  were  gone  by. — Plutarch. 

Note  139,  page  63,  col.  1. 

and  she  who  said. 

Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands. 
The  story  of  the  marriage  and  the  poison  is  well 
I      known  to  every  reader. 

Note  140,  page  64,  col.  1. 

His  last  great  work. 
The  transfiguration;  "la  quale  opera,  nel  vedere  il 
corpo  morto,  e  quella  viva,  faceva  scoppiare  I'anima 
di  dolore  a  ogni  uno,  che  quivi  guardava." — Vasari. 


Note  141,  page  64,  col.  2. 
Have  none  appear'd  as  tillers  of  the  ground. 
The  Author  of  the  Letler  to  Julia  has  written  ad- 
mirably on  this  subject. 

All  sad,  all  silent!    O'er  the  ear 
No  sound  of  cheerful  toil  is  swelling. 
Earth  has  no  quickening  spirit  here. 
Nature  no  charm,  and  Man  no  dwelling  ! 

Not  less  admirably  has  he  described  a  Roman 
Beauty ;  such  as  "  weaves  her  spells  beyond  the 
Tiber> 

Methinks  the  Furies  with  their  snakes. 
Or  Venus  with  her  zone,  might  gird  her; 
Of  fiend  and  goddess  she  partakes. 
And  looks  at  once  both  Love  and  Murder. 

Note  142,  page  64,  col.  2. 
From  this  Seat. 
Mons  Albanus,  now  called  JNlonte  Cavo.    On  the 
summit  stood  for  many  centuries  the  temple  of  Jupi- 
ter Laliaris.     "Tuque  ex  tuo  edito  monte  Latiaris, 
sancte  Jupiter,"  etc. — Cicero. 

Note  143,  page  65,  col.  1. 
Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain. 
Nisus  and  Em-ialus.    "  La  scene  ties  six  demiers 
livres  de  Virgile  ne  comprend,  qu'une  lieue  de  ter 
rain." — Bonstetten. 

Note  144,  page  65,  col.  1. 

How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay. 

Forty-seven,  according  to  Dionys.  Halicar.  1.  iv. 

Note  145,  page  65,  col.  1. 

Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  Horatii 

"  Horatiorum  qua  viret  sacer  campus."—  Mart. 

Note  146,  page  65,  col.  1. 
There  are  the  Ouintian  Meadows. 
"  Quse  prata  Quintia  vocantur." — LiVY. 

Note  147,  page  65,  col.  2. 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric. 

Music  ;  and  from  the  loftiest  strain  to  the  lowliest 
from  a  Miserere  in  the  Holy  Week  to  the  shepherd's 
humble  offering  in  Advent;  the  last,  if  we  may  judge 
from  its  effects,  not  the  least  subduing,  perhaps  the 
most  so. 

Once,  as  we  were  approaching  Frescati  in  the  sun 
shine  of  a  cloudless  December  morning,  we  observed 
a  rustic  group  by  the  road-side,  before  an  image  of 
the  Virgin,  that  claimed  the  devotionti  of  the  passen- 
ger from  a  niche  in  a  vineyard  wall.  Two  young 
men  from  the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi,  in  their  long 
brown  cloaks,  were  playing  a  Christmas-carol.  Their 
instruments  were  a  hautboy  and  a  bagpipe ;  and  the 
air,  wild  and  simple  as  it  was,  was  such  as  she  might 
accept  with  pleasure.  The  ingenuous  and  smihng 
countenances  of  these  rude  minstrels,  who  seemed  so 
sure  that  she  heard  them,  and  the  unaffected  delight 
of  their  little  audience,  all  younger  than  themselves, 
all  standing  uncovered,  and  moving  their  lips  in 
prayer,  would  have  arrested  the  most  careless  trav- 
eller. 

Note  148,  page  65,  col.  2. 

And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible. 

WTioever  has  entered  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's  or 
the  Pauline  Chapel,  during  the  Exposition  of  the  Holy 

95 


88 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sacrament  there,  will  not  soon  forget  tlie  blaze  of 
the  altar,  or  the  dark  circle  of  worshippers  kneeling 
in  silence  before  it. 

Note  149,  page  65,  col.  2. 
Ere  they  came. 
An  allusion  to  the  Prophecies  concerning  Anti- 
christ.    See  the  interpretations  of  Mede,  Newton, 
Clarke,  etc.;   not  to  mention  those  of  Dante  and 
Petrarch. 

Note  150,  page  66,  col  1. 

And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chant 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  most  angelical. 
There  was  said  to  be  in  the  choir,  among  others 
of  the  Sisterhood,  a  daughter  of  Cimarosa. 

Note  151,  page  66,  col.  2. 
'Twas  in  her  utmost  need;  nor,  while  she  lives. 
Her  back  was  at  that  time  turned  to  the  people ; 
but  in  his  countenance  might  be  read  all  that  was 
passing.  The  Cardinal,  who  officiated,  was  a  vener- 
able old  man,  evidently  unused  to  the  ceremony  and 
much  affected  by  it. 

Note  152,  page  66,  col.  2. 
The  black  pall,  the  requiem. 
Among  other  ceremonies,  a  pall  was  thrown  over 
her,  and  a  reqmem  sung. 

Note  153,  page  66,  col.  2. 
Unsheathes  his  wings. 
He  is  of  the  beetle-tribe. 

Note  154,  page  66,  col.  2. 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy. 
For,  in  that  upper  clime,  effulgence  comes 
Of  gladness.  Cary's  Dante. 

Note  155,  page  67,  col.  1. 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon. 
There  is  a  song  to  the  lucciola  in  every  dialect  of 
Italy;  as  for  instance  in  the  Genoese  : 
Cabela,  vegni  a  baso  ; 
Ti  dajo  un  cuge  de  lette. 
The  Roman  is  in  a  higher  strain  : 
Bella  regina,  etc. 

Note  156,  page  67,  col.  1. 
And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance, 
lo  piglio,  quando  il  di  giunge  al  confine, 
Le  luccicle  ne'  prati  ampj  ridotte, 
E,  come  gemme,  le  comparto  al  crine  ; 
Poi  fra  I'ombre  da'  rai  vivi  interrotte 
Mi  presento  ai  Pastori,  e  ognun  mi  dice : 
Clori  ha  le  stelle  al  crin  come  ha  la  Notte.    Varano. 

Note  157,  page  67,  col.  1. 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green. 
Pliny  mentions  an  extraordinary'  instance  of  lon- 
gevity in  the  ilex.  "  There  is  one,"  says  he,  "  in  the 
Vatican  older  than  the  City  itself  An  Etruscan  in- 
scription in  letters  of  brass  attests  that  even  in  those 
days  the  tree  was  held  sacred:''  and  it  is  remarkable 
that  there  is  at  this  time  on  the  Vatican  mount  an 
ilex  of  great  antiquity.  It  is  in  a  grove  just  above  the 
palace-garden. 

Note  15 S,  page  67,  col.  1. 

(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  ?) 

*  I  did  not  tell  you  that  just,  bf.low  the  first  fall,  on 


the  side  of  the  rock,  and  hanging  over  that  torrent, 
are  little  ruins  which  they  show  you  for  Horace's 
house,  a  curious  situation  lo  observe  the 

Praeceps  Anio,  et  Tiburni  lucus,  et  uda 
Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis.  Gray's  Letters. 

Note  159,  page  68,  col.  2. 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 
The  place  here  described  is  near  Mola  di  Gaeta, 
in  the  kingdom  of  Naples. 

Note  160,  page  68,  col.  2. 

When  they  that  robb'd,  were  men  of  better  faith. 

Alluding  to  Alfonso  Piccolomini.     "  Stupiva  cias- 

cuno  che,  mentre  un  bandito  osservava  rigorosamente 

la  sua  parola,  il  Papa  non  avesse  ribrezzo  di  mancare 

alia  propria." — Galluzzi.  ii,  364. 

lie  was  hanged  at  Florence,  March  16,  1591. 

Note  161,  page  68,  col.  2. 
When  along  the  shore. 
Tasso  was  returning  from  Naples  to  Rome,  and 
had  arrived  at  Mola  di  Gaeta,  when  he  received  this 
tribute  of  respect.  The  captain  of  the  troop  was 
Marco  di  Sciarra.  See  Manso.  Vila  del  Tasso.  Ariosto 
had  a  similar  adventure  with  FiUppo  Pachione.  See 
Baruffaldi. 

Note  162,  page  69,  col.  1. 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array. 
"Cette  race  de  bandits  a  ses  racines  dans  la  popu- 
lation meme  du  pays.  La  police  ne  saitou  les  trouver." 
Lettres  de  Ciiateauvieux. 

Note  163,  page.  69,  col.  2. 
Three  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate. 
This  story  was  written  in  the  year  1820,  and  is 
I  founded  on  the  many  narratives  which  at  that  time 
were  circulating  in  Rome  and  Naples. 

Note  164,  page  71,  col.  2. 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die. 
The  Elder  Pliny.     See  the  letters  in  which  his 
nephew  relates  to  Tacitus  the  circumstances  of  his 
death. 

Note  165,  page  74,  col.  1. 
The  fishing-town,  Amalfi. 
"  Amalfi  fell,  after  three  hundred  years  of  pros- 
perity; but  the  poverty  of  one  thousand  fishermen  is 
yet  dignified  by  the  remains  of  an  arsenal,  a  cathe- 
dral, and  the  palaces  of  royal  merchants." — Gibbon. 

Note  166,  page  74,  col.  2. 

A  Hospital,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west. 
It  was  dedicated  to  Saint  John. 

Not?  167,  page  74,  col.  2. 

relics  of  ancient  Greece. 

Among  other  things  the  Pandects  of  Justinian  were 
found  there  in  1137.  By  the  Pisans  they  were  taken 
from  Amalfi,  by  the  Florentines  from  Pisa;  and  they 
are  now^  preserved  with  religious  care  in  the  Lauren- 
tian  Library. 

Note  168,  page  74,  col.  2. 

Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  Sicily. 
There  is  at  this  day  in  Syracuse  a  street  called 
La  Strada  degli  Amalfitani. 

96 


ITALY. 


89 


Note  169,  page  74,  col.  2. 

Not  thus  did  they  return, 
The  tyrant  slain. 

It  was  in  the  year  839.  See  Muratori.  Art.  Chronici 
Amalphitani  Fragmenta. 

Note  170,  page  74,  col.  2. 
Serve  for  their  monument. 
By  degrees,  says  Giannone,  they  made  themselves 
famous  through  the  world.  The  Tarini  Amalfitani 
were  a  coin  familiar  to  all  nations ;  and  their  mari- 
time code  regulated  everywhere  the  commerce  of  the 
sea.  Many  churches  in  the  East  w  ere  by  them  built 
and  endowed :  by  them  w^as  first  founded  in  Palestine 
that  most  renow^ned  military  Order  of  St.  John  of 
Jerusalem ;  and  who  does  not  know  that  the  Mari- 
ner's Compass  w'as  invented  by  a  citizen  of  Araalfi  ? 

Note  171,  page  75,  col.  1. 
The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild. 
The  violets  of  Paestum  w"ere  as  proverbial  as  the 
roses.     Martial  mentions  them  with  the  honey  of 
Hybla. 

Note  172,  page  75,  col.  1. 

Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost. 

The  introduction  to  his  treatise  on  Glory.  Cic.  ad 

Att.  xvi,  6.  For  an  account  of  the  loss  of  that  treatise, 

see  Petrarch,  Epist.  Rer.;  Senilium,  xv,  i ;  and  Bayle, 

Diet,  in  Alcyoiiius. 

Note  173,  page  75,  col.  2, 

and  Posidonia  rose. 

Originally  a  Greek  City  under  that  name,  and  after- 
wards a  Roman  City,  under  the  name  of  Paestum. 
See  Mitford's  Hist,  of  Greece,  chap,  x,  sec.  2.  It  was 
surprised  and  destroyed  by  the  Saracens  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  tenth  century. 

Note  174,  page  76,  col.  1. 
"  What  hangs  behind  that  curtain  7" 

This  story,  if  a  story  it  can  be  called,  is  fictitious ; 
and  I  have  done  little  more  than  give  it  as  I  received 
it.  It  has  already  appeared  in  prose  ;  but  with  many 
alterations  and  additional  circumstances. 

The  abbey  of  Monte  Cassino  is  the  most  ancient 
and  venerable  house  of  the  Benedictine  Order.  It  is 
situated  within  fifteen  leagues  of  Naples,  on  the  in- 
land road  to  Rome ;  and  no  house  is  more  hospitable. 

Note  175,  page  76,  col.  1. 
For  life  is  surely  there,  and  visible  change. 
There  are  many  miraculous  pictures  in  Italy ;  but 
none,  I  believe,  were  ever  before  described  as  malig- 
nant in  their  influence. 

Note  176,  page  76,  col.  2. 

Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle. 

Then  degraded,  and  belonging  to  a  Vetturino. 

Note  177,  page  76,  col.  2. 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  wear. 
A  Florentine  family  of  great  antiquity.  In  the  sixty- 


third  novel  of  Franco  Sacchetty  we  read,  that  a 
stranger,  suddenly  entering  Giotto's  study,  thrciv 
down  a  shield  and  departed,  saying,  "Paint  me  ray 
arms  in  that  shield ;"  and  that  Giotto,  looking  after 
him,  exclaimed,  "  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  he  ?  He  says, 
Paint  me  my  arms,  as  if  he  was  one  of  the  Bardi ! 
What  arms  does  he  bear  ?" 

Note  178,  page  77,  col.  1. 
Doria,  Pisani. 
Paganino  Doria,  Nicolo  Pisani ;  those  great  seamen, 
who  balanced  for  so  many  years  the  fortunes  of  Genoa 
and  Venice. 

Note  179,  page  77,  col.  1. 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea. 
The  Feluea  is  a  large  boat  for  rowing  and  sailing, 
much  used  in  the  Mediterranean. 

Note  180,  page  77,  col.  1. 
How  oft  where  now  we  rode. 
Every  reader  of  Spanish  poetry  is  acquainted  with 
that  affecting  romance  of  Gongora, 

Amarrado  al  duro  banco,  etc. 
Lord  Holland  has  translated  it  in  his  Life  of  Lope 
Vega. 

Note  181,  page  77,  col.  2. 
Here  he  lived. 

The  Piazza  Doria,  or,  as  it  is  now  called,  the  Piazza 
di  San  Matteo,  insignificant  as  it  may  be  thought,  is 
to  me  the  most  interesting  place  in  Genoa.  It  was 
there  that  Doria  assembled  the  people,  when  he  gave 
them  their  liberty  (Sigonii  Vita  Dorite) ;  and  on  one 
side  of  it  is  the  church  he  lies  buried  in,  on  the  other 
a  house,  originally  of  very  small  dimensions,  with 
this  inscription :  S.  C.  Andreae  de  Auria  Patriae  Liber- 
atori  Munus  Publicum. 

The  streets  of  old  Genoa,  like  those  of  Venice, 
were  constructed  only  for  foot-passengers. 

Note  182,  page  77,  col.  2. 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse. 
See  his  Life  by  Sigonio. 

Note  183,  page  77,  col.  2. 
A  house  of  trade. 
When  I  saw  it  in  1822,  a  basket-maker  lived  on 
the  groimd-floor,  and  over  him  a  seller  of  chocolate. 

Note  184,  page  78,  col.  1. 

Before  the  ocean-wave  thy  wealth  reflected. 

Alluding  to  the  Palace  which  he  built  afterwards 

and  in  which  he    l\\ice    entertained   the  Emperor 

Charles  the  Fifth.    It  is  the  most  magnificent  edifice 

on  the  bay  of  Genoa. 

Note  185,  page  78,  col.  1. 

The  ambitious  man,  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 

Fiesco.  See  Robertson's  History  of  the  EmperOi" 
Charles  the  Fifth. 

97 


13 


JKt!^crUanrott!^  porm.^. 


ODE  TO  SUPERSTITION  I 
1.1. 

Hence,  to  the  realms  of  Night,  dire  demon,  hence! 

Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 

That  httle  world,  the  human  mind, 
And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 

Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar. 

Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore. 

With  flashing  fury  bid  his  e}'e-balls  shine  ; 

Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine ! 

Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch  has  steel'd  the 
breast, 

Whence,  through  her  April-shower,  soft  Pity  smiled; 

Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  bless'd. 

To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child. ^ 

At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep, 
4.t  thy  command  exults,  though  Nature  bids  him  weep ! 

1.2. 

When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth.^* 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high, 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sky, 
And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth, 
Rocking  on  the  billowy  air. 
Ha !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell, 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell! 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb, 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom. 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  \'ulgar  eye: 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm. 
And,  through  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his  form. 

1.3. 

O'er  solid  seas,  where  Winter  reigns, 

And  holds  each  mountain-wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 

By  glistering  star-light  tlu-ough  the  snow. 
Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 

Each  potent  spell  thou  badest  him  know. 

By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands. 

Full  in  the  sun  the  Bramin  stands ; 

And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 

To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream. 

His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 
Smit  by  the  scorchings  of  the  noontide  beam. 

Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,* 
Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest : 

She  hurls  the  torch !  she  fans  the  fire  ! 
To  die  is  to  be  blest: 

She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more, 

And,  sighing,  sinks !  but  sinks  to  soar. 

O'ershadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast. 
The  SLsters  sail  in  dusky  state,^ 

And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 
Weave  the  airy  web  of  Fate; 


1  Written  in  early  youth. 

2  The  sncrifice  of  Iphitienia. 

3  Lucretius,  I.  63. 

4  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 

5  The  Fates  of  the  Northern  Mythology.    See  Mallet's  An- 
tiquities. 


WTiile  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,' 
Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral 
train. 

II.  1. 

Thou  spakest,  and  lo !  a  new  crea  lion  glow'd. 

Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 

Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own, 
And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bow'd. 

Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 

Grasp'd  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 
Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  Lord  of  Light 
Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  his  golden  height. 
The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers,^ 
Springs   from   its   parent   earth,  and   shakes  the 

spheres ; 
The  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers, 
And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 
Sweet  Music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind ; 
And  bright-eyed  Painting  stamps  the  image  of  the 
mind. 

II.  2. 
Round  their  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise! 

A  timbrell'd  anthem  swells  the  gale, 

And  bids  the  God  of  Thunders  hail;  3 
With  lowings  loud  the  captive  God  rephes. 

Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smile, 

Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile  !  '* 
But  ah !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee !  * 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore, 
Lock'd  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?^ 
What  eye  those  long,  long  labyrinths  dare  explore,'' 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight ; 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charm'd  with  perennial  sweets,  and  smiling  at  decay  ? 

n.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright  ^ 
With  purple  ether's  liquid  light. 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  Magi  gaze 

On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire  ; 

Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze, 

Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 

But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 

From  Delphi's  venerable  shade? 

The  temple  roclis,  the  laurel  waves! 

"The  God!  the  God!"  the  Sibyl  cries.s 

Her  figure  swells,  she  foams,  she  raves  I 
Her  figure  swells  to  more  that  mortal  size ! 

Streams  of  rapture  roll  along, 

Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies : 
Wake,  Echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song, 
Oh  catch  it,  ere  it  dies ! 


1  An  allusion  to  the  Srcond-si^ht. 

2  See  that  fine  description  of  the  sudden  animation  of  the 
Pall.idinm,  in  thessecond  book  of  the  .^neid. 

3  The  bull.  Apis.  4  The  Crocodile. 

5  Accor'iin^  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  difficult  in 
Egypt  to  find  a  god  than  a  man. 

6  The  IJieroslyphics.  7  The  Catacomba 

8  "  The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "have  no  temples, altar 
or  statues.  They  sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  highest  mountains." 
I.  131. 

9  ^n.  VI.  46,  etc. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


91 


Tlie  Sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 
In  vain  she  checlvs  the  God's  control ; 

His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul, 

Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
Tlie  cavern  frowns;  its  hundred  mouths  unclose! 
And  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire  flows ! 

III.  1. 

Mona,  thy  Druid-rites  awake  the  dead! 

Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 

Even  whisper  to  the  idle  air ; 
Rites  that  have  chain'd  old  Ocean  on  his  bed. 

Shiver'd  by  thy  piereuig  glance 

Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  the  imperial  eagle  fly," 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 
Hark,  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string ! 
At  every  pause  dread  Silence  hovers  o'er: 
While  murky  Night  sails  round  on  raven-wing, 
Deepening  the  tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's  roar; 
Chased  by  the  Morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow. 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowl'd  on  the  black  wave 
below. 

III.  2. 
Lo,  steel-clad  War  his  gorgeous  standard  rears ! 

The  red-cross  squadrons  madly  rage,^ 

And  mow  through  infancy  and  age  ; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day. 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away  ; 
In  cloister'd  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs, 
Wliile  from  each  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear,  with  what  heart-felt  beat,  the  midnight-bell 
Swings  its  slow  summons  through  the  hollow  pile ! 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight-cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle ; 
With  choral  chantmgs  vainly  to  aspire. 
Beyond  this  nether  sphere,  on  Rapture's  wing  of  fire. 

III.  3. 

Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel. 
Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 
Faith  Ufts  the  soul  above  this  Uttle  ball! 
While  gleams  of  glor}'  open  round. 
And  circling  choirs  of  angels  call, 
Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crowTi'd, 
Hope  to  obscure  that  latent  spark, 
Destined  to  shine  when  suns  are  dark  ? 
•     Thy  triumphs  cease!  through  every  land. 
Hark !  Truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease  ! 
Her  heavenly  form,  with  glowing  hand, 
Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 
Flush'd  with  youth  her  looks  impart 

Each  fine  feeling  as  it  flows ; 
Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 

Pure  as  the  mountain-snows  : 
Celestial  transports  round  her  play, 
And  sofily,  sweetly  die  away. 
She  smiles  I  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 

That  blacken'd  o'er  thy  baleful  reign  ? 
Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud. 

Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 


1  See  Tacitus,  1.  x'lv,  c.  29. 

2  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and  sack  of 
Jerusalem,  in  the  last  year  of  the  eleventh  century.  Matth. 
Paris,  p.  34. 


Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above. 
And  lo !  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love, 


VERSES 


WRITTEN  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  SIDDONS.' 

Yes,  't  is  the  pulse  of  life !  my  fears  were  vain 
I  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world ;  no  seraph  yet! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit,  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board. 
Where  I  died  last — by  poison  or  the  sword  ; 
Blanching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

— To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Call'd  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone ; 
A  verj'  woman — scarce  restrains  her  own ! 
Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mind, 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assign'd  ? 
Ah  no !  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  Art ; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  heart ! 

But,  Ladies,  say,  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress  ?  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect. 
Know  every  Woman  studies  stage-effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  Instinct  teaches,  or  as  Humor  wills ; 
And,  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  awexls 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells ! 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  rage, 
Along  the  carpet's  many-color'd  stage  ; 
Or  lisp  her  merri'  thoughts  with  loud  endeavor, 
Now  here,  now  there — in  noise  and  mischief  ever 

A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers 
And  mimics  father's  gout,  and  mother's  vapors  ; 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances ; 
Playful  at  church,  and  serious  when  she  dances ; 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes. 
And  whispers  all  slie  hears  to  all  she  knows; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions ! 
— Till  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
She  sports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places ; 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  Man. 

Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sighs! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  ^^^th  mice ; 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
|Ier  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdain'd, 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  cliain'd! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  "Wife, 
With  all  the  dear  distracting  cares  of  life ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave. 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive ; 
Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire, 
With  nightly  blaze  set  Portland-place  on  fire ; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  Concert,  Opera,  Ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  though  seen  by  all ; 


1  After  a  Tragedy,  performed  for  her  benefit,  at  the  Tneatie 
Royal  in  Drury-lane,  April  27, 1795. 

99 


92 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And,  when  her  shatter'd  nerves  forbid  to  roam, 
In  very  spleen — rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last,  the  grey  Dowager,  in  ancient  flounces, 
With  snuff  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces ; 
Boasts  how  the  Sires  of  this  degenerate  Isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duell'd  for  a  smile. 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal ; 
With  modern  Belles  eternal  warfare  wages. 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamor  from  their  cages ; 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all. 
Like  some  old  Ruin,  "  nodding  to  its  fall !" 

Thus  Woman  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit ; 
Not  least  an  actress,  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  Nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot, 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chain'd  down  by  coward  Art, 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 
— And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 
Born  on  the  stage — through  every  sliifting  scene, 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene. 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired  ? 
TIius  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings. 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things ! 
To  you,  uncheck'd,  each  genuine  feeling  flows ; 
For  all  that  life  endears — to  you  she  owes. 


ON 


ASLEEP. 


Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile. 
Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile, 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  siglis  I — 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks. 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
"What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure !    Above  control, 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee ! 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary! 


TO 


Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly ; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

Oh  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh. 
You  would  n.  >t  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


FROM   EURIPIDES. 

There  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village-girls,  singing  wild  madrigals, 
^ip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear. 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.    There  first  I  saw  her 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'T  was  heaven  to  look  upon ;  and  her  sweet  voice 
As  tunable  as  harp  of  many  strings, 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  iny  soul ! 


Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The  small  birds  build  there ;  and,  at  summer-noon 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers. 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  conceal'd, 
Sing  to  herself    *  *  * 


CAPTIVITY. 

Caged  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  wake 
When  the  hem  screams  along  the  distant  lake, 
Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free, 
Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 
In  vain !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  Avears, 
Nor  moved  by  gold — nor  to  be  moved  by  tears ; 
And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw 
On  the  green-mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


THE  SAILOR. 

The  Sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore, 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade ; 
He  climbs  the  mast  to  fetist  his  eye  once  more, 
And  busy  Fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah !  now  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew, 
Recall'd  and  cherish 'd  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view ; 
Its  colors  mellow'd,  not  impair'd,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Through  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart, 
To  see  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  Morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line. 
Or  Eve's  grey  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight-darkness  joui. 
Still,  still  he  views  the  parting  look  she  gave. 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er. 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
And  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar, 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul- 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove, 
In  many  a  plantain-forest,  waving  wide  ; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove. 
And  giant  palms  o'er-arch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend  ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

100 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


93 


-'Tis  she,  'tis  she  herself!  she  waves  her  hand! 
Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvas  furl'd ; 
Soon  through  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  to  land, 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  from  the  world. 


TO  AN  OLD  OAK. 


Immota  manet ;  multosque  nepotes, 

Multa  virum  volvens  durando  sscula,  vincit.  Virg. 


Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move ! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above. 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 

There  once  the  steel-clad  knight  reclined. 
His  sable  plumage  tempest-loss'd  ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind, 
His  brow  the  hero  cross'd ! 

Tlien  Culture  came,  and  days  serene ; 
And  village-sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  cross'd  the  green; 
And  maids  and  shepherd-youths  were  seen 
To  celebrate  the  May. 

Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  na\-y  thunder-fraught! 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep, 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep, 
Opening  new  spheres  of  thought! 

Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian  spell, 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 
Of  human  sacrifice ! 

Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening-sky ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  corse  that  shivers  there 
Ot'  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below. 
That  youthful  Hope  in  bright  perspective  drew? 
False  were  the  tints !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  Distemper  threw ! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves  ! 
(Glory  and  joy  reserved  for  you  to  share.) 
Far,  far  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves 
Than  they,  alas !  unconscious  of  her  care. 


TO  TWO  SISTERS.^ 

Well  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Lock  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears. 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief 
Oh  she  was  great  in  mind,  though  young  in  years  I 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  w^hich  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke,  and  kindled  sweet  surprise. 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Play'd  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade 
Still  to  the  last  enliven'd  and  endear'd. 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  convey'd. 
And  ever  beam'd  delight  when  you  appear'd. 


1  On  the  death  of  a  younger  sister. 


12 


ON  A  TEAR. 

Oh  !  that  the  Chemist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  ! 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart, 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure 

The  httle  brilhant,  ere  it  fell. 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye  ; 
Then,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 
The  spring  of  Sensibility! 

Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 
In  thee  the  rays  of  Virtue  shine ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright. 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  nune. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief. 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  Love  or  Pity,  Joy  or  Grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme. 
In  ever)'  clime,  in  every  age ; 
Thou  charm'st  in  Fancy's  idle  dream. 
In  Reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law '  which  moulds  a  tear, 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source. 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere, 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 


TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  LOST.' 


Vane,  quid  affectas  faciem  mihi  ponere,  pictor  ? 

Aeris  et  linguae  sura  tilia  ; 

Et,  si  vis  similem  pingere,  pinge  sonum.    Ausoniua. 


Once  more.  Enchantress  of  the  soul. 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
— Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky? 
Say,  iff  what  distant  star  to  dwell  ? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 
Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Resolved  and  imresolved  to  go, 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore, 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  Tempest  bore ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
'Mid  Echoes  yet  untuned  by  song ; 


1  The  law  of  gravitation. 


2  In  the  winter  of  180S 
101 


94 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


1 


Arrested  in  the  realms  of  Frost, 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  Ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou  I  't  was  thine  to  soar 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  ? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 
No  shock  of  elements  at  war, 
Did  thee  detain.    Thy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amidst  the  Cherub-choir  ; 
And  there  awhile  to  thee  't  was  given 
Once  more  that  Voice '  beloved  to  join. 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  di\'ine, 
And  nui-sed  thy  infant  years  with  many  a  strain 
from  Heaven! 


FROM  A  GREEK  EPIGRAM. 
While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels. 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall. 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 
O  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


TO  THE  FRAGMEXT  OF  A  STATUE  OF  HERCULEE 
COMMONLY  CALLED  THE  TORSO. 

And  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone, 
(Thy  giant  hmbs  to  night  and  chaos  hurl'd), 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world  ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
What  though  the  Spirits  of  the  North,  that  swept 
Rome  from  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept, 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  'mid  tower  and  temple  sunk; 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  'twas  thine  to  rise. 
Still,  still  unquell'd  thy  glorious  energies ! 
Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught^ 
Bright  revelations  of  the  Good  they  sought ; 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spell  ^  in  secret  given. 
To  draw  down  Gods,  and  hft  the  soul  to  Heaven  I 


TO 


Ah  !  little  thought  she,  when,  with  wild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew, 
VVhen  mountam-glens  and  caverns  full  ol  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw, 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept, 
That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 
That  she  should  die — nor  watch'd,  alas,  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 


1  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 

2  In  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  it  was  placed  by  Ju- 
lius H.  it  was  long  the  favorite  study  of  those  great  men  to 
whom  we  owe  the  revival  of  tlie  arts,  Michael  Angelo,  Raphael, 
and  the  Carracci. 

3  Once  in  the  possession  of  Praxiteles,  if  we  may  believe  an 
ancient  epigram  on  the  Guidian  Venus. — Analecta  Vet.  Poeta- 
rum,  m.  200. 

4  On  the  death  of  her  sister. 


Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  Fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 
There  didst  thou  stand — there,  with  the  smile  ehe 

knevA-, 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes ;  still,  still  the  same 
As  in  the  houi-s  gone  unregarded  by ! 
To  thee,  how  changed !  comes  as  she  ever  came, 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasurr  in  her  eye ! 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears, 
WTien  hngering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 
By  the  way-side  she  shed  her  parting  tears — 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  Youth ! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER. 
There,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtain'd  roimd, 
Worn  to  a  shade,  and  wan  with  slow  decay, 
A  father  sleeps !    Oh  hush'd  be  every  sound ! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hotu-s  away ! 
He  stirs — yet  still  he  sleeps.    May  heavenly  dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise  ; 
Till  through  the  shutter'd  pane  the  morning  streams. 
And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rush-light  dies. 


THE  BOY  OF  EGRE.MOND.' 

"  Say,  what  remains  when  Hope  is  fled  V 
She  answer'd,  "Endless  weeping!" 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell, 
Tlie  stag  was  roused  on  Barden-fell  ; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  \\Tiarfe  a  hem  was  flying ; 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood, 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest-green. 
With  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood, 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen. 
Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore  ; 
But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two, 
And  the  river  rushes  through, 
His  voice  was  heard  no  more ! 
'T  was  but  a  step !  the  gulf  he  pass'd  ; 
But  that  step — it  was  his  last ! 
As  through  the  mist  he  \\-ing'd  his  way 
(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  dajO, 
The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 
The  Master  and  his  merlin  too. 
That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 
Received  their  little  all  of  Life ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung ; 
The  "Miserere!"  duly  siuig  ; 


i 


1  In  the  twelfth  century  William  Fitz-Duncan  laid  waste  the 
valleys  of  Craven  with  fire  and  sword ;  and  was  afterwards 
established  there  by  his  unclei  David,  Kins  of  Scotland. 

He  was  the  lust  of  the  race;  his  son,  commonly  called  the  Boy 
of  Egremond,  dying  before  him  in  the  manner  here  related; 
when  a  Priory  was  removed  from  Embsay  to  Bolton,  that  it 
might  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the  place  where  the  accident 
happened.  That  place  is  still  known  by  the  name  of  the  Strid; 
and  the  mother's  answer,  as  given  in  the  first  stanza,  is  to  this 
day  often  repeated  in  Wharfedale. — Se©  Whitaker's  Hist,  of 
Craven. 

102 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


9a 


And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 

Are  wandering  ap  and  down  the  wood. 

But  what  avail  they?    Ruthless  Lord, 

Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 

Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 

The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 

Sit  now  and  answer  groan  for  groan, 

The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 

And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there, 

The  mother  in  her  long  despair, 

Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleeping. 

Of  those  who  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping ; 

Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 

When  red  with  blood  the  river  roll'd. 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

On  thee,  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers  ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice ; 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace. 
Smiles  through  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice 

Spare  the  fine  tremors  of  her  feeling  frame  ! 
To  thee  she  turns — forgive  a  \T[rgin's  fears ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim : 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears  I 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires, 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  the  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play  ! 
What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend  ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day. 
And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend ! 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thought ! 
T'.iat  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer-path  with  flowers  ; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught. 
Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours ! 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAY-BREAK. 

The  sim-beams  streak  the  azure  skies. 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  brow: 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise. 
And  chase  the  roe-buck  through  the  snow. 

From  rock  to  rock,  ^^^th  giant-bound, 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound, 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass.' 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  way 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude ; 
Mark'd  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey. 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 


1  There  are  passes  in  the  Alps,  where  the  guides  tell  you  to 
move  on  with  speed,  and  snj*  nothing,  lest  the  agitation  of  the 
air  should  loosen  the  snows  above. 


And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud, 
And  as  the  echoing  cliffs  reply. 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning-cloud, 
Perch'd,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


IMITATION  OF  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

Love,  under  Friendship's  vesture  white, 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing ; 
And  oit  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite, 
Like  Pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight. 
Smiles  through  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  Rage  the  God  appears  ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame  !— 
Frowning,  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
'T  is  Love ;  and  Love  is  still  the  same. 


A  CHARACTER. 

As  through  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals, 
And  the  sweet  air  ils  modest  leaf  reveals  ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known. 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own 


TO    THE 

YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  **** 

Ah!  why  with  tell-tale  tongue  reveal  > 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal  ? 
Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph-sweetness  of  her  face? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer ; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes; 
And,  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
— Trace  all  the  mother  in  the  child ! 


AN  EPITAPH  2  ON  A  ROBIN-R£DBREAST. 
Tread  lightly  here  ;  for  here,  't  is  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hush'd  around, 
A  small  note  \^akes  from  under-ground, 
Where  now  his  tiny  hones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
— Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green, 
Or  school-boy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 
But  Love,  and  Joy,  and  smiling  Spring 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 


TO  THE  GNAT. 

When  by  the  greenwood  side,  at  summer  eve, 
Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye  ; 
And  fairy  scenes,  that  Fancy  loves  to  weave, 
Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy ; 


1  Alluding  to  some  verses  which  she  had  written  on  an  elder 
sister. 

2  Inscribed  on  an  urn  in  the  flower-garden  at  Hafod. 

103 


96 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'Tis  Ihine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 
Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  deUght, 
Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away, 
And  all  is  Solitude,  and  all  is  Night ! 

Ah  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 

Unsheathes  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air  ! 

No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply. 

Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 

Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings. 

Thy  dragon-scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 

Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings ! 

— I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more ! 


A  WTSH. 
Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall,  shall  linger  near. 

The  svi-allow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest  ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  -\-illage-church,  among  the  trees, 
"WTiere  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT.  1786. 
While  through  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  sighs. 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor, 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise, 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  me  no  more  ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave. 
Now  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave ! 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale, 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there : 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  Uberty. 

In  orange-groves  and  myrtle-bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound  ; 
Or  crowTis  of  living  laurel  weave. 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day. 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade, 
These  simple  jo3's,  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


AN  INSCRIPTION. 
Shepherd,  or  Huntsman,  or  worn  Mariner, 
Whale'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thirst, 
Drink  and  be  glad.    This  cistern  of  w^hite  stone, 
Arch'd,  and  o'er  wrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse 
This  iron  cup  chain'd  for  the  general  use, 
And  these  rude  seats  of  earth  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  Fatima.     Borne  hence  a  bride, 
'T  was  here  she  tum'd  from  her  bcioved  sire, 
To  see  his  face  no  more.'  Oh,  if  thou  canst, 
('T  is  not  far  oflf)  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers  ; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scoop'd  in  the  marble  there. 
That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holy  I  ^  


WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND. 
SEPTEMBER  2, 1812. 

Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone 
Ben  Lomond  in  his  glorj'^  shone, 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee  ;  when  the  breeze, 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands. 
Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees, 
Where,  grey  with  age,  the  dial  stands ; 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me ! 
— Though  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed, 
Beloved  Sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fair>'-isles  fled  far  away  ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  green, 
Where  shepherd-huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day ; 
That,  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled, 
And  that,  the  asylum  of  the  dead : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Rob  Roy '  the  boatman  told , 
His  arm,  that  fell  below^  his  knee. 
His  cattle-ford  and  mountain-hold. 

Tarbat,*  thy  shore  I  climb'd  at  last , 
And,  thy  shady  region  pass'd, 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood, 
Ajid  look'd  upon  another  flood  ;  * 
Great  Ocean's  self!    ('T  is  He  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills) ; 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among. 
As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grev 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky. 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew  ; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  halfdescried, 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide ; 
The  cliffs  and  promontories  there. 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare  ; 
Each  beyond  each,  with  giant-feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet  ; 

1  See  an  anecdote  related  by  Pausanias.  iii,  20. 

2  A  Turkish  superstition. 

3  A  famous  outlaw. 

4  Signifying,  in  the  Erse  language,  an  Isthmus. 

5  Locb-Long. 

104 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


97 


The  shatter'd  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 

Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rush'd  in  vain, 

T\'rant  of  the  dref^  domain  : 

All  into  raidnighf^shadow  sweep, 

When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep ! 

Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight, 

The  prow  wakes  splendor ;  and  the  oar. 

That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before, 

Flashes  in  a  sea  of  light ! 

Glad  sign,  and  sure  !  for  now  we  hail 

Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 

And  bright  indeed  the  path  should  be 

That  leads  to  Friendship  and  to  thee ! 

Oh  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Toll'd  duly  on  the  desert  air. 
And  crosses  deck'd  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  hke  some  loved  romantic  tale. 
Oft  shall  my  wear}^  mind  recall. 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men. 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall, 
Thv  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail, 
And  her— the  Lady  of  the  Glen ! 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
JMinghng  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  Paradise  unfold, 
Quaflf  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening-sky, 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstacy ! 
— Yet  Avert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept 
And  such  is  man ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day ! 


A  FAREWELL. 

Once  more,  enchanting  maid  adieu ! 
I  must  be  gone  while  yet  I  may ; 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you. 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face. 
For  ever  changing,  yet  the  same, 
Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fires  my  frame ! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go. 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest. 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  your  white  neck  love  to  rest 

— Say,  when  to  kindle  soft  delight, 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  meet, 
How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  yet  so  sweet  ? 

O  say — but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu  !  a  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
— Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frowm  on  me. 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  GRACES.^ 

Approach  with  reverence.  There  are  those  within 
Whose  dwelling-place  is  Heaven.  Daughters  of  Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  life ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases.  Virtue's  self 
Admired,  not  loved  ;  and  those  on  whom  they  smile. 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful. 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
OCTOBER  10,  1806.' 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  approach,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  greatness  lie.^ 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  Fox,  for  ever  gone  : 
How  near  the  Place  where  late  his  glory  shone ! 
And,  though  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  Prayer, 
Though  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there, 
Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas !  at  best  as  transient  and  as  vain, 
Still  do  I  see  (while  through  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral-song  iince  more  proclaims  the  rite) 
The  moving  Pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 
That,  like  a  Darkness,  fill'd  the  solemn  Pile  ; 
The  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led, 
Of  those  that  loved  Him  hving,  mourn'd  Him  dead ; 
Of  those  the  Few,  that  for  their  Country  stood 

Round  Him  who  dared  be  singularly  good  : 

All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claim'd  Him  for  their  own  ; 

And  nothing  wanting — but  himself  alone!  ^ 
Oh  say,  of  Him  now  rests  there  but  a  name ; 

Wont,  as  He  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame  ? 

Friend  of  the  Absent,  Guardian  of  the  Dead !  * 

Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sorrows  shed  ? 

(Such  as  He  shed  on  Nelson's  closing  grave ; 

How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  He  gave !) 

In  Him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong. 

The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 

Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew — 

Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too  ?  ^ 

Wliat  though  with  War  the  madding  nations  rung 

"  Peace,"  when  He  spoke,  was  ever  on  his  tongue ! 

Amidst  the  frowns  of  Power,  the  tricks  of  State, 

Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great ! 

In  vain  malignant  vapors  gather'd  round  ; 

He  walk'd,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 

The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  Orb  of  day. 

Reflect  its  splendor,  and  dissolve  away ! 


1  A  phenomenon  described  by  many  navigators. 

2  At  Woburn- Abbey. 

14 


1  After  the  funeral  of  the  Right  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox. 

2  Venez  voir  le  peu  qui  nous  reste  de  tant  de  grandeur,  etc 
Bossuet.  Oraison  funebre  de  Louis  de  Bourbon. 

3  Et  rien  enfin  ne  manque  dans  tous  ces  honneurs,  que  celtt: 
k  qui  on  les  rend. — Ibid. 

4  Alluding  particularly  to  his  speech  on  moving  a  new  \vrit 
for  the  borough  of  Tavistock,  March  16, 1802. 

5  See  that  admirable  delineation  of  his  character  by  Sir  James 
Mackintosh,  which  first  appeared  in  the  Bombay  Courier  Jan- 
uary 17, 1807.  -  Qg 


98 


ROGERS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When  in  retreat  He  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  letter'd  ease  and  calm  Philosophy, 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  godUke  Spirit  deigns  to  rove ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer. 
For  many  a  deed,  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallow'd  page  ; 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage ; 


And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied. 

Whom  most  He  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  He  died 

Friend  of  all  human-kind !  not  here  alone 
(The  voice  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Vv  ilt  Thou  be  missed. — O'er  every  land  and  sea. 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  Thee ! 
And,  when  the  Storm  is  hush'd — in  distant  years — 
Foes  on  Thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears ' 


THE  END  OF  ROGERS'S  WORKS. 


THE 


^®^si(p^m  w©mE 


OF 


JHOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


Content!^* 


Page 

MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL v 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE 1 

Notes 10 

GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING 12 

Notes 5 20 

THEODRIC;  A  DOMESTIC  TALE 26 

Notes 31 

RnSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

,  -  O'Connor's  Child ;  or  "  The  Flower  of  Love 

"ies  bleeding" 

■■  Lcchiel's  Warning 

-  .Battle  of  the  Baltic 

,  Ye  Mariners  of  England,  a  Naval  Ode  .  .  . 

/     r'vHohenlinden 

Glenara 

Exile  of  Erin 

Lord  UUin's  Daughter 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Burns 

..The  Soldier's  Dream 

Lines  written  on  visiting  a  Scene  in  Argyle- 

shire 

To  the  Rainbow 

The  Last  Man 

Valedictory  Stanzas  to  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq.  com- 
posed for  a  Public  Meeting  held  June  1817 

A  Dream 

Lines  written  at  the  request  of  the  Highland 
Society  when  met  to  commemorate  the  21st 
of  March,  the  Day  of  Victory  in  Eg>'pt  . 
Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  the  Spanish  Pa- 
triots latest  killed  in  resisting  the  Regency 

and  the  Duke  of  Angouleme 

Song  of  the  Greeks 

Song  of  Hybrias  the  Cretan 

Fragment  from  the  Greek  of  Alcman    .  .  . 
Martial  Elegy,  from  the  Greek  of  Tyrtoeus 
Specimens  of  a  New  Translation  of  the  Me- 
dea of  Euripides 

Speech  of  the  Chorus,  same  Tragedy    .  .  . 

Ode  to  Winter 

Lines  spoken  on  the  first  opening  of  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  after  the  death  of  the  Prin- 
cess Charlotte,  1817 

Lines  on  the  Grave  of  a  Suicide 

ReuUiira 

The  Turkish  Lady 

The  Wounded  Hussar 

Lines  inscribed  on  the  Monument  erected  by 
the  widow  of  Admiral  Sir  G.  Campbell, 
K.  C.  B.  to  the  Memory  of  her  Husband 


ib. 


Page 

The  Brave  Roland     50 

The  Spectre  Boat 51 

The  Lover  to  his  Mistress  ou  her  Birth-day   ib 
Lines  on  receiving  a  Seal  with  the  Campbell 

Crest,  from  K.  M ,  before  her  marriage   ih 

Gilderoy 52 

Adelgitha ib 

Absence ib' 

The  Ritter  Bann ib. 

The  Harper 54 

Song,  To  the  Evening  Star ib 

"  Men  of  England  " ib. 

The  Maid's  Remonstrance 55 

"  Drink  ye  to  Her  " ib. 

"  When  Napoleon  was  flying  "  .  .  .  .   ib 

The  Beech-tree's  Petition ib. 

Song,  "  Earl  March  " ib. 

Love  and  Madness,  an  Elegy 56 

Song,  "  Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  find" ib. 

Stanzas  on  the  Threatened  Invasion,  1803  .   ib. 

Song,  "  Withdraw  not  yet " 57 

Hallowed  Ground ib. 

Caroline. — Part  1 58 

Part  II.  To  the  Evening  Star  .  .  ib. 

Field  Flowers ib. 

Stanzas  on  the  Battle  of  Navarino  .  .      .  .  59 
Lines  on  leaving  a  scene  in  Bavaria   ....  ib. 

Stanzas  to  Painting 60 

Drinking-song  of  Munich 61 

Lines  on  revisiting  a  Scottish  River   ....   ib. 

Lines  on  revisiting  Cathcart ib. 

The  "  Name   Unknown ;"  in   imitation   of 

Klopstock 62 

Trafalgar ib. 

Lines  written  in  Sickness ib. 

Lines  on  the  State  of  Greece;  occasioned  by 
being  pressed  tc  make  it  a  subject  of  poet- 
ry, 1827 ib. 

Lines  on  James  IV.  of  Scotland,  who  fell  at 

the  Battle  of  Flodden ib. 

To  Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore ;  three  cele- 
brated Scottish  beauties 63 

Song — "  'T  is  now  the  hour  " ib. 

Lines  to  Edward  Lytton  Bulwer,on  the  Birth 

of  his  Child ib. 

Song,  "  When  Love  came  first  to  Earth  ".  .   ib. 

Dirge  of  Wallace 64 

Song,  "  My  mind  is  my  kingdom  " ib. 

"  Oh  cherub  Content  I " ib. 

The  Friars  of  Dijon ib 

108 


jKemotr  of  STtvoma^  e»imi)ftcll 


It  is  not  a  little  singular  that  the  Tyrtaeus  of 
modern  English  poetry  should  at  the  same  time 
be  one  of  the  m_ost  tender  as  well  as  original  of 
writers.  Campbell  owes  less  than  any  other  Brit- 
ish poet  to  his  predecessors  or  contemporaries. 
He  has  lived  to  see  his  verses  quoted  like  those 
of  earlier  poets  in  the  literature  of  his  day,  lisped 
Dy  children,  and  sung  at  public  festivals.  The 
war-odes  of  Campbell  have  nothing  to  match 
Jiem  in  the  English  language  for  energy  and 
fire,  while  their  condensation  and  the  felicitous 
selection  of  their  versification  are  in  remarkable 
harmony.  Campbell,  in  allusion  to  Cimon,  has 
been  said  to  have  "  conquered  both  on  land  and 
sea,"  from  his  naval  Odes  and  "  Hohenlinden " 
embracing  both  scenes  of  warfare.  • 

Scotland  gave  birth  to  Thomas  Campbell.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  second  marriage,  and  born  at 
Glasgow  in  1777.  His  father  was  born  in  1710, 
and  was  consequently  nearly  70  years  of  age 
when  the  poet  his  son  was  ushered  into  the  world. 
He  was  sent  early  to  school  in  his  native  city, 
and  his  instructor  was  Dr.  David  Alison,  an  indi- 
vidual of  great  celebrity  in  the  practice  of  educa- 
tion. He  had  a  method  of  instruction  in  the 
classics  purely  his  own,  by  which  he  taught  with 
great  facility,  and  at  the  same  time  rejected  all 
harsh  discipline,  putting  kindness  in  the  place  of 
terror,  and  alluring  ratlier  than  compelling  the 
pupil  to  his  duty.  Campbell  began  to  write  verses 
young.  There  are  some  attempts  at  poetry  yet 
extant  among  his  friends  in  Scotland,  written 
when  he  was  but  nine  years  old.  They  natural- 
ly are  childish,  but  still  display  that  propensity 
for  the  muses  by  which  at  a  remarkably  early 
age  he  was  so  distinguished.  For  his  place  of 
education  he  had  a  great  respect,  as  well  as  for 
the  memory  of  his  masters,  of  whom  he  always 
spoke  in  terms  of  great  affection.  He  was  twelve 
years  old  when  he  quitted  school  for  the  Uni- 
versity of  Glasgow.  There  he  was  considered  an 
excellent  Latin  scholar,  and  gained  high  honor  by 
!  a  contest  with  a  candidate  twice  as  old  as  him- 
self, by  which  he  obtained  a  bursary.  He  con- 
stantly bore  away  the  prizes,  and  every  fresh 
success  only  seemed  to  stimulate  him  to  more 
ambitious  exertions.  In  Greek  he  was  considered 
I  the  foremost  student  of  his  age ;  and  some  of 
i  K 


his  translations  were  said  to  be  superior  to 
any  before  offered  for  competition  in  the  Uni. 
versity.  Campbell  thus  furnishes  an  exception 
to  the  majority  of  men  of  genius,  who  have 
seldom  been  remarkable  for  diligence  and  pro- 
ficiency in  their  early  years,  the  lofty  powers 
they  possessed  not  being  exhibited  until  mature 
life.  Campbell  while  at  the  University  made 
poetical  paraphrases  of  the  most  celebrated  Greek 
poets  ;  of  Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Aristophanes, 
which  were  thought  efforts  of  extraordinary 
promise.  Dr.  Millar  at  that  time  gave  philo- 
sophical lectures  in  Glasgow.  He  was  a  highly 
gilT;ed  teacher  and  a  most  excellent  man.  His 
lectures  attracted  the  attention  of  young  Camp- 
bell, who  became  his  pupil,  and  studied  with 
eagerness  the  principles  of  sound  philosophy ;  he 
was  favored  with  the  confidence  of  his  teacher, 
and  partook  much  of  his  society.  To  being  thus 
early  groimded  in  the  fundamental  truths  of  phi- 
losophy,  and  accustomed  to  analyze  correctly,  is 
to  be  attributed  mainly  the  side  in  politics  which 
Campbell  early  embraced,  and  that  love  of  free- 
dom  and  free  thought  which  he  has  invariably 
shown  upon  all  questions  in  which  the  interests 
of  mankind  are  concerned. 

Campbell  quitted  Glasgow  to  remove  into 
Argyleshire,  w^here  the  situation  of  tutor  in  a 
family  of  some  note  was  offered  and  accepted  by 
him.  It  was  in  Argyleshire,  among  the  romantic 
mountains  of  the  North,  that  the  poetical  spirit 
increased  in  energy,  and  the  charms  of  verse  took 
entire  possession  of  his  mind.  Many  people  now 
alive  remember  him  there  wandering  alone  by 
the  torrent,  or  over  the  rugged  steeps  of  that  wild 
country,  reciting  the  strains  of  other  poets  aloud, 
or  silently  composing  his  own.  Several  of  his 
pieces  which  he  has  rejected  in  his  collected 
works,  are  lianded  about  in  Scotland  in  manu- 
script. The  "  Dirge  of  Wallace  "  (given  at  pago 
64),  which  will  not  be  found  in  the  London 
Editions  of  his  works,  is  one  of  these  wild  com- 
positions ;  and  it  is  difficult  to  say  why  he  should 
have  rejected  it,  for  the  poetry  is  truly  noble 
It  has  hitherto  appeared  only  in  fugitive  publi- 
cations  and  newspapers. 

From  Argyleshire,  where  his  residence  was 
not  a  protracted  one,  Campbell  removed  to  EJin- 

109 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


burgh.  There  he  was  very  quickly  noticed  for 
his  talents,  and  grew  familiar  with  the  cele- 
brated men  who  at  that  period  ornamented  the 
Scottish  capital.  The  friendship  and  kindness 
of  some  of  the  first  men  of  the  age,  could  not 
fail  to  stimulate  a  mind  like  that  of  Campbell. 
He  became  intimate  with  Dugald  Stuart;  and 
almost  every  leading  professor  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh  was  his  friend.  While  in 
Edmburgh,  he  brought  out  his  celebrated  "  Pleas- 
ures of  Hope  "  at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  of  this  work,  that  no  poet 
of  this,  or  perhaps  any  other  country,  ever  pro- 
duced, at  so  early  an  age,  a  more  elaborate  and 
finished  performance.  For  this  work,  which  for 
twenty  years  produced  to  the  publishers  between 
two  and  three  hundred  pounds  a-year,  the  author 
received  at  first  but  10/.,  which  was  afterwards 
increased  by  an  additional  sum,  and  the  profits 
accruing  from  a  4to  edition  of  his  work.  ^  By  a 
subsequent  act  of  the  legislature,  extending  the 
term  of  copyright,  it  reverted  again  to  the  author ; 
but,  as  might  be  expected,  with  no  proportional 
increase  of  profit.  To  criticise  here  a  work  which 
has  become  a  British  classic,  would  be  superfluous. 
Campbell's  pecuniary  circumstances  were  by  no 
means  liberal  at  this  time,  and  a  pleasant  anecdote 
is  recorded  of  him,  in  allusion  to  the  hardships  of 
an  author's  case  similarly  situated  with  himself; 
he  was  desired  to  give  a  toast  at  a  festive  moment 
when  the  character  of  Napoleon  was  at  its  utmost 
point  of  disesteem  in  England.  He  gave  "  Bo- 
naparte." The  company  started  with  astonish- 
ment. "Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "here  is  Bonaparte 
in  his  character  of  executioner  of  the  booksell- 
ers." Palm  the  bookseller  had  just  been  executed 
in  Germany  by  the  orders  of  the  French. 

After  residing  not  quite  three  years  in  Edin- 
burgh, Campbell  quitted  his  native  country  for 
the  continent.  He  sailed  for  Hamburgh,  and 
there  made  many  acquaintances  among  the  more 
enlightened  of  the  society  botli  in  that  city  and 
Altona.  There  were  numerous  Irish  exiles  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Hamburgh  at  that  time,  and 
some  of  them  fell  in  the  way  of  the  poet,  who  after- 
wards related  many  curious  anecdotes  of  them. 
There  were  sincere  and  honest  men  among  them, 
who  with  the  energy  of  the  national  character, 
and  an  enthusiasm  for  liberty,  had  plunged  into 
the  desperate  cause  of  the  rebellion  two  years 
before,  and  did  not  despair  of  liberty  and  equality 
in  Ireland  even  then.  Some  of  them  were  in 
private  life  most  amiable  persons,  and  their  fate 
was  every  way  entitled  to  sympathy.  The  poet, 
from  that  compassionate  feeling  which  is  an 
amiable  characteristic  of  his  nature,  wrote  the 
•'  Exile  of  Erin,"  from  the  impression  their  situ- 
ation and  circumstances    made  upon  his  mind. 


It  was  set  to  an  old  Irish  air  of  the  most  touching 
pathos,  and  will  perish  only  with  the  language. 

Campbell  travelled  over  a  great  part  of  Gcr- 
inany  and  Prussia,  visiting  the  universities  and 
acquiring  a  knowledge  of  German  literature. 
From  the  walls  of  a  convent  he  commanded  a 
part  of  the  field  of  Hohenlinden  during  that 
sanguinary  contest,  and  proceeded  afterwards 
in  the  track  of  Moreau's  army  over  the  scene  of 
combat.  This  impressive  sight  produced  the 
celebrated  "  Battle  of  Hohenlinden ;"  an  ode 
which  is  as  original  as  it  is  spirited,  and  stands 
by  itself  in  British  literature.  The  poet  tells  a 
story  of  the  phlegm  of  a  German  postilion  at 
this  time,  who  was  driving  him  post  by  a  place 
where  a  skirmish  of  cavalry  had  happened,  and 
who  alighted  and  disappeared,  leaving  the  car- 
riage and  the  traveller  alone  in  the  cold  (for 
the  ground  was  covered  with  snow)  for  a  con- 
siderable space  of  time.  At  length  he  came 
back,  and  it  was  found  that  he  had  been  em- 
ploying  himself  in  cutting  off  the  long  tails  of 
the  slain  horses,  which  he  coolly  placed  on  the 
vehicle  and  drove  on  his  route.  Campbell  was 
also  in  Ratisbon  when  the  French  and  .Austrian 
treaty  saved  it  from  bombardment — a(  most  anx- 
ious moment.  \ 

In  Germany,  Campbell  made  the  friendship  of 
the  two  Schlegels,  of  many  of  the  most  noted 
literary  and  political  characters,  and  was  for 
tunate  enough  to  pass  an  entire  day  with  the 
venerable  Klopstock,  who  died  just  two  years 
afterwards.  The  proficiency  of  Campbell  in  tho 
German  language  was  rendered  very  considerablo 
by  this  visit,  and  his  own  indefatigable  perse- 
verance in  study.  He  eagerly  read  all  the  works 
he  met  with,  some  of  them  upon  very  abstruse 
topics,  and  suffered  no  obstacle  to  intervene  be- 
tween  himself  and  his  studies,  wherever  he  might 
chance  to  be.  Though  of  a  cheerful  and  lively 
temper  and  disposition,  and  by  no  means  averse 
from  the  pleasures  which  are  so  attractive  in 
the  morning  of  existence,  they  were  rendered 
subservient  to  the  higher  views  of  the  mind,  and 
were  pursued  for  recreation  only,  nor  suffered 
to  distract  his  attention  a  moment  from  the  great 
business  of  his  life. 

The  travels  of  Campbell  in  Germany  occupied 
about  thirteen  months ;  when  he  returned  to 
England,  and  for  the  first  time  visited  London. 
He  soon  afterwards  composed  those  two  noble 
marine  odes,  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  and  "Ye 
Mariners  of  England,"  which,  with  his  "  Hohen- 
linden," stand  unrivalled  in  the  English  tongue  , 
and  though,  as  Byron  lamented,  Campbell  has 
written  so  little,  they  are  enough  alone  to  place 
him  imforgotten  in  the  shrine  of  the  muses. 
In  1803  the  poet  married  Miss  Sinclair,  a  lady  of 

110 


MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  Cx\MPBELL. 


VIJ 


Scottish  descent  and  considerable  personal  beauty,  | 
but  of  whom  he  was  deprived  by  deatJi  in  1828.  j 
His  residence  was  at  S^^denham,  and  the  entire  j 
neiffhborhood  of  that  pleasant  village  reckoned 
itself  in  the  circle  of  his  friends  ;  nor  did  he  quit  ■ 
his  rural  retreat  until,  in  1821,  literary  pursuits 
demanded  his  residence  in  the  metropolis.  It  was 
at  Sydenham,  in  a  house  looking  towards  the  res- 
ervoir, that  the  poet  produced  his  greatest  work, 
*'  Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  written  in  the  Spen- 
serian stanza.  It  is  a  simple  Indian  tale,  but  the 
tenderness  and  beauty  of  the  thoughts  and  ex- 
pressions are  scarcely  equalled,  certainly  not  sur- 
passed, in  any  English  poet.  The  speech  of  Outa- 
lissi  seems  to  have  furnished  Byron  with  a  hint  for 
the  style  and  form  of  several  of  his  stories.  About 
the  same  time  Campbell  was  appointed  professor 
of  poetry  in  the  Royal  Institution,  where  he  de- 
livered lectures,  which  have  since  been  published. 
He  also  undertook  the  editorship  of  selections  from 
the  British  poets,  intended  as  specimens  of  each, 
and  accompanied  with  critical  remarks,  extend- 
ing to  several  volumes.  These  remarks  show  the 
erudition  of  the  author,  but  they  also  proclaim 
that  fastidiousness  of  taste  and  singular  sensi- 
tiveness regarding  all  he  publishes,  which  is  so 
distinguishing  a  characteristic  of  this  poet.  He 
refines,  and  re-refines,  until  his  sentences  appear 
to  have  lost  connexion  with  each  other,  in  his 
anxiety  to  render  them  as  perfect  as  possible. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  his  Selections  he 
again  visited  Germany,  and  spent  some  time  in 
Vienna,  where  he  acquired  a  considerable  know- 
ledge of  the  Austrian  court  and  its  manners,  and 
closely  observed  that  unrelaxing  despotism  by 
which  it  governs.  He  remained  long  at  Bonn, 
where  his  friend,  A.  W.  Schlegel,  resides,  and 
passed  his  time  in  cultivating  the  intimacy  of 
other  literary  men  there.  Leaving  his  son  under 
the  care  of  a  tutor  in  Bonn  Universit}-,  Campbell 
returned  to  England  in  1820,  to  undertake  the 
editorship  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  a  pub- 
lication which  speedily  came  into  extensive  cir- 
culation, and,  with  BlacJ(wood''s  Magazine,  which 
espouses  the  opposite  side  in  politics,  takes  the 
lead  in  English  menstrual  literature.  To  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine  CsLmTphell  has  contributed  little, 
indeed  nothing  more  than  is  before  the  public 
with  his  name.  He  is  slow,  and  even  idle  in  his 
habits  of  business.  To  fix  his  attention  closely 
for  any  considerable  time  to  literary  labor  is  a 
difficult  thing,  and  composition  seems  rather  a 
task  than  a  pleasure,  since  the  fire  of  his  youth 
has  cooled.  He  is  fond  of  the  society  of  his 
friends,  and  of  the  social  hour ;  his  stock  of 
anecdotes  and  stories,  which  is  extensive,  is  often 
displayed  on  these  occasions,   but  it  is  humor 


rather  than  wit  with  which  they  are  seasoned. 
Of  all  the  natives  of  Scotland,  however,  he  has 
least  of  the  patois  of  the  country  in  his  delivery, 
which  is  surprising,  when  it  is  considered  he  was 
above  twenty-one  years  of  age  before  he  quitted 
it,  and  shows  how  accurately  he  must  have  at- 
tuned his  ear  to  the  English  pronunciation  early 
in  life.  Besides  his  knowledge  of  the  Latin  and 
Greek  languages,  Campbell  is  a  good  German 
scholar,  has  acquired  a  considerable  knowledge 
of  Hebrew,  and  speaks  French  fluently. 

During  the  residence  of  Campbell  at  Sydenham, 
there  were  several  individuals  in  that  village  who 
were  fond  of  inviting  literary  men  to  their  tables, 
and  were  conspicuous  for  their  conviviality. 
Numerous  choice  spirits  used  to  meet  together 
there,  and  among  them  was  Campbell.  The 
repartee  and  joke  were  exchanged,  and  many  a 
practical  trick  played  off  which  now  forms  the 
burden  of  an  after-dinner  story  wherever  the 
various  individuals  then  present  are  scattered. 
Many  of  these  have  been  since  distinguished  in 
the  literary  world ;  among  them  w^ere  the  face- 
tious brothers,  the  Smiths,  James  and  Horace, 
Theodore  Hook,  and  others ;  but  it  appears 
Campbell  was  behind  none  of  them  in  the  zest 
with  which  he  entered  into  the  pleasantries  of 
the  time,  and  many  an  anecdote  is  recorded  of 
him  on  these  occasions,  to  which  some  biographer 
will  doubtless  do  justice  hereafter. 

In  1824  Campbell  published  his  "  Theodric,  a 
Domestic  Tale,"  the  least  popular  of  his  works. 
Many  pieces  of  great  merit  came  out  in  the  same 
volume,  among  which  are  the  "  Lines  to  J.  P. 
Kemble,"  and  those  entitled  the  "Last  Man." 
The  fame  of  Campbell,  however,  must  rest  on 
his  previous  publications,  which,  though  not 
numerous,  are  so  correct,  and  were  so  fastidious, 
ly  revised,  that,  while  they  remain  as  standards 
of  purity  in  the  English  tongue,  they  siifficiently 
explain  why  their  author's  compositions  are  so 
limited  in  number,  "  since  he  who  wrote  so  cor- 
rectly could  not  be  expected  to  write  much." 

By  his  marriage  Campbell  had  two  sons.  One 
of  them  died  before  attaining  his  twentieth  year; 
the  other  while  at  Bonn,  where,  as  already  ob- 
served, he  was  placed  for  his  education,  exhibit- 
ed symptoms  of  an  erring  mind,  which,  on  his 
return  to  England  soon  afterwards,  ripened  into 
mental  derangement  of  the  milder  species.  This 
disease,  it  is  probable,  he  inherited  on  his  mother's 
side,  as  on  his  father's  no  symptoms  of  it  had 
ever  been  shown.  After  several  years  passed  in 
this  way,  during  which  the  mental  disease  consid- 
erably relaxed,  so  that  young  Campbell  became 
wholly  inoffensive,  his  father  received  him  into 
his  house.     The  effects  of  such  a  sight  upon  a 

111 


vm 


MEMOIR  OF  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


mind  of  the  most  exquisite  sensibility,  like  the 
poet's,  may  be  readily  imagined  ;  it  was,  at  times, 
a  source  of  the  keenest  suffering'. 

We  must  now  allude  to  an  event  in  Campbell's 
life,  which  will  cause  him  the  gratitude  of  mil- 
lions of  unborn  hearts,  and  the  benefits  of  which 
are  incalculable.  It  is  to  Campbell  that  England 
owes  the  London  University.  Four  years  before 
it  was  made  public,  the  idea  struck  his  mind,  from 
having  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  univer- 
sities of  Germany,  and  studying  their  regulations. 
He  communicated  it  at  first  to  two  or  three  friends 
only,  until  his  ideas  upon  the  subject  became  ma- 
ture, when  they  were  made  public,  and  a  meeting 
upon  the  business  convened  in  London,  which 
Mr.  Campbell  addressed,  and  where  the  establish- 
ment of  such  an  institution  met  the  most  zealous 
support.  Once  in  operation,  the  men  of  the  city, 
headed  by  Mr.  Brougham,  lost  not  a  moment  in 
advancing  the  great  and  useful  object  in  view. — 
The  undertaking  was  divided  into  shares,  which 
were  rapidly  taken.  Mr.  Brougham  took  the  lead- 
ing part,  and  addressed  tlie  various  meetings  on 
the  subject.  Mr.  Campbell,  ill  fitted  for  steady 
exertion,  seems  to  have  left  the  active  arrange- 
ments to  others  better  qualified  for  them  by  habits 
of  business,  and  contented  himself  vrith  attend- 
ing the  committees.  With  a  rapidity  unexampled 
the  London  University  has  been  completed ;  and 
Campbell  has  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  his 
projected  instrument  of  education  in  full  opera- 
tion, in  less  than  three  years  after  he  made  the 
scheme  public. 

In  person,  Campbell  is  below  the  middb  stat- 
ure, well  made,  but  slender.  His  features  indi- 
cate great  sensibility,  and  that  fastidiousness  for 
which  he  is  remarkable  in  everything  he  under- 
takes. His  eyes  are  large,  peculiarly  striking,  and 
of  a  deep  blue  color,  his  nose  aquiline,  his  ex- 
pression generally  satur)iine.  He  has  long  worn 
a  peruke,  but  the  natural  color  of  his  hair  is 
dark.  His  step  is  light,  but  firm  ;  and  he  appears 
to  possess  much  more  energy  of  constitution  than 
men  of  fifty-two,  who  have  been  studious  in  their 
habits,  exliibit  in  general.  His  tim.e  for  study  is 
mostly  during  the  stillness  of  niglit,  when  he  can 
bo  wholly  abstracted  from  external  objects.    He 


exhibits  great  fondness  for  recondite  subjects; 
and  will  frequently  spend  days  in  minute  inves- 
tigations into  languages,  which  in  the  result  are 
or  no  moment :  but  his  ever-delighted  theme  is 
Greece,  her  arts  and  literature.  There  he  is  at 
home ;  it  was  his  earliest  and  will  probably  be 
his  latest  study.  There  is  no  branch  of  poetry  or 
history  which  has  reached  us  from  the  "  mother 
of  arts"  with  which  he  is  not  familiar.  He  has 
severely  handled  Mitford  for  his  singular  praise 
of  the  Lacedemonians  at  the  expense  of  the  Athe- 
nians,  and  his  preference  of  their  barbarous  and 
obscene  laws  to  the  legislation  of  the  latter  peo- 
ple. His  Lectures  on  Greek  Poetrj'  are  already 
before  the  public,  having  appeared  in  parts  in 
the  New  Monthly  Magazine.  He  also  published 
"Annals  of  Great  Britain,  from  the  accession  of 
George  the  Third  to  the  Peace  of  Amiens;"  and 
is  tlie  author  of  several  articles  on  Poetry  and 
Belles-Lettres  in  the  Edinburgh  Encyclopcpdia.  In 
addition  to  the  profits  derived  from  these  literary 
labors,  our  Poet  enjoys  a  pension  froni  Govern- 
ment, supposed  to  have  been  granted  to  him  for 
writing  political  paragraphs  in  an  evening  paper, 
in  support  of  Lord  Grenville's  administration. 

Campbell  was,  as  has  been  before  observed, 
educated  at  Glasgow,  and  received  the  honor  of 
election  for  Lord  Rector,  three  successive  years, 
notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  the  professors 
and  the  excellent  individuals  who  were  placed 
against  him  ;  among  whom  were  the  late  minister 
Canning  and  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  students  of 
Glasgow  College  considered  that  the  celebrity  of 
the  poet,  his  liberal  principles,  his  being  a  fellow- 
townsman,  and  his  attention  to  their  interests, 
entitled  him  to  the  preference. 

Finall}',  Campbell  has  all  the  characteristics  of 
llie  genus  irritalile  about  him.  He  is  the  creature 
of  impulses,  and  often  does  things  upon  the  spur 
of  the  moment,  which  upon  reflection  he  recalls. 
He  is  remarkable  for  absence  of  mind  ;  is  charita- 
j  ble  and  kind  in  his  disposition,  but  of  quick  tem- 
per :  his  amusements  are  few,  the  friend  and 
I  conversation  only.  His  heart  is  perhaps  one  of 
i  the  best  that  beats  in  a  human  bosom ;  it  is,  in 
:  effect,  that  which  should  belong  to  the  poet  of 
{  "  Gertrude,"  his  favorite  personification. 

112 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


Cftt  tilea<5urr!?35  of  ?^o»r. 


m  TWO  PARTS. 


PART  I. 

ANALYSIS. 

The  Poem  opens  with  a  comparison  between  the 
beauty  of  remote  objects  in  a  landscape,  and  those 
ideal  scenes  of  felicity  which  the  imagination  de- 
lights to  contemplate — the  influence  of  anticipation 
upon  the  other  passions  is  next  delineated — an  allu- 
sion is  made  to  the  well-known  fiction  in  Pagan  tra- 
dition, that,  when  all  the  guardian  deities  of  man- 
kind abandoned  the  world,  Hope  alune  was  left  be- 
hind— the  consolations  of  this  passion  in  situations 
of  dang((r  and  distress — the  seaman  on  his  watch — 
the  soldier  marching  into  battle — allusion  to  the 
mteresting  adventures  of  Byron. 

The  inspiration  of  Hope,  as  it  actuates  the  efforts  of 
genius,  whether  in  the  department  of  science,  or  of 
taste — domestic  felicity,  how  intimately  connected 
with  views  of  future  happiness — picture  of  a  mother 
watching  her  infant  when  asleep — pictures  of  the 
prisoner,  the  maniac,  and  the  wanderer. 

From  the  consolations  of  individual  misery,  a 
transition  is  made  to  prospects  of  political  improve- 
ment in  the  future  slate  of  society — the  wide  field 
that  is  yet  open  for  the  progress  of  humanizing  arts 
among  uncivilized  nations — from  these  views  of 
amelioration  of  society,  and  the  extension  of  liberty 
and  truth  over  despotic  and  barbarous  countries,  by 
a  melancholy  contrast  of  ideas,  we  are  led  to  reflect 
upon  the  hard  fate  of  a  brave  people  recently  con- 
spicuous in  their  struggles  for  independence — descrip- 
tion of  the  capture  of  Warsaw,  of  the  last  contest 
of  the  oppressors  and  the  oppressed,  and  the  mas- 
sacre of  the  Polish  patriots  at  the  bridge  of  Prague — 
apostrophe  to  the  self-interested  enemies  of  human 
improvement — the  wrongs  of  Africa — the  barbarous 
policy  of  Europeans  inr  India — prophecy  in  the  Hin- 
doo mythology  of  the  expected  descent  of  the  Deity 
to  redresfe  the  miseries  of  their  race,  and  to  take 
vengeance  on  the  violators  of  justice  and  mercy. 


At  summer  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye. 
Whose  sun-bright  summit  mingles  with  the  sky? 
15  K2 


WTiy  do  those  cliffs  of  shadowy  tint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscape  smiling  near  ?~'> 
'T  is  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  delight  we  linger  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmeasured  way , 
Thus,  from  afar,  each  dim-discover'd  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been; 
And  every  form,  that  Fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  obhvion,  glows  divinely  there. 

What  potent  spirit  guides  the  raptured  eye 
To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 
Can  Wisdom  lend,  with  all  her  heavenly  power, 
The  pledge  of  Joy's  anticipated  hour  ? 
Ah,  no !  she  darkly  sees  the  fate  of  man — 
Her  dim  horizon  bounded  to  a  span ; 
Or,  if  she  hold  an  image  to  the  view, 
'T  is  Nature  pictured  too  severely  true. 
With  thee,  sweet  Hope  !  resides  the  heavenly  light. 
That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight : 
Thine  is  the  charm  of  Life's  bevvilder'd  way, 
That  calls  each  slumbering  passion  into  play. 
Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister  band, 
On  tiptoe  watching,  start  at  thy  command, 
And  fly  where'er  thy  mandate  bids  them  steer. 
To  Pleasure's  path,  or  Glory's  bright  career. 

Primeval  Hope,  the  Aunian  Muses  say. 
When  Man  and  Natiu-e  mourn'd  their  first  decay; 
When  every  f(jrm  of  death.,  and  every  Avoe, 
Shot  from  malignant, stars  to  earth  below; 
When  Murder  bared  her  arm,  and  rampant  War 
Yoked  the  red  di*agons  of  her  iron  car ; 
When  Peace  and  Mercy,  banish'd  from  the  plain. 
Sprung  on  the  viewless  winds  to  Heaven  again ; 
All,  all  forsook  the  friendless  guilty  mind, 
But  Hope,  the  charmer,  linger'd  still  behind. 

Thus,  while  Elijah's  burning  wheels  prepare 
From  Carmel's  heights  to  sweep  the  fields  of  air. 
The  prophet's  mantle,  ere  his  flight  began, 
Dropt  on  the  world — a  sacred  gift  to  man. 

Auspicious  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  eveiy  woe  ; 

U3 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour. 
The  way-worn  pilgrim  seelis  thy  summer  bower ; 
There,  as  the  wild  bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 
What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring ! 
What  viewless  forms  th'  ^olian  organ  play, 
And  sweep  the  furrow'd  lines  of  anxious  thought 
away ! 

Angel  of  life !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  Ocean's  wildest  shore. 
Lo !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark,  careering  o'er  unfathom'd  fields  ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  w"estem  star, 
With  meteor-standard  to  the  winds  mifurl'd. 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world! 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  i^les  : 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow ; 
And  waft,  across  the  wave's  tumultuous  roar. 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  fiursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form ! 
Rocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shatter'd  bark  delay ; 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep. 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starrj'  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul ; 
His  native  hills  that  rise  m  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times. 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood-blossom'd  vale. 
Rush  on  his  thought ;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sigh'd  to  leave  behind ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face. 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear. 
And  clasps,  with  many  a  sigh,  his  children  dear ! 
While,  long  neglected,  but  at  length  caress'd, 
His  faithful  dog  salutes  the  smiling  guest. 
Points  to  the  master's  eyes  (where'er  they  roam) 
His  wistful  face,  and  whines  a  welcome  home. 

Friend  of  the  brave!  in  peril's  darkest  hour. 
Intrepid  Virtue  looks  to  thee  for  power ; 
To  thee  the  heart  its  trembling  homage  yields, 
On  stormy  floods,  and  camage-cover'd  fields, 
When  front  to  front  the  banner'd  hrsts  combine, 
Halt  ere  they  close,  and  form  the  dreadful  line. 
When  all  is  still  on  Death's  devoted  soil. 
The  march-worn  soldier  mingles  for  the  toil ; 
As  rings  his  glittering  tube,  he  lifts  on  high 
The  dauntless  brow,  and  spirit-speaking  eye, 
Hafls  in  his  heart  the  triumph  yet  to  come, 
And  hears  thy  stormy  music  in  the  drum ! 

And  such  thy  strength-inspiring  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore — (1) 
In  horrid  chmes,  where  Chiloe's  tempests  sweep 
Tumultuous  murmurs  o'er  the  troubled  deep, 
'T  was  his  to  mourn  Misfortune's  rudest  shock, 
Scourged  by  the  winds,  and  cradled  on  the  rock, 


To  wake  each  joyless  mom,  and  search  again 
The  liimish'd  haunts  of  solitary  men; 
Whose  race,  unyielding  as  their  native  storm, 
Know  not  a  trace  of  Nature  but  the  form ; 
Yet,  at  thy  call,  the  hardy  tar  pursued, 
Pale,  but  intrepid,  sad,  but  unsubdued, 
Pierced  the  deep  woods,  and  hailing  from  afar 
The  moon's  pale  planet  and  the  northern  star ; 
Paused  at  each  dreary  cry,  unheard  before. 
Hyenas  in  the  wild,  and  mermaids  on  the  shore ; 
Till,  led  by  thee  o'er  many  a  cliff  sublime. 
He  foimd  a  warmer  world,  a  milder  clime, 
A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend. 
Peace  and  repose,  a  Briton  and  a  friend !  (2) 

Congenial  Hope  !  thy  passion-kindling  power. 
How  bright,  how  strong,  in  youth's  untroubled  hour 
On  yon  proud  height,  with  Genius  hand  in  hand, 
I  see  thee  light,  and  wave  thy  golden  wand. 

"  Go,  child  of  Heav'n !  (thy  winged  words  proclaim) 
'T  is  thine  to  search  the  boundless  fields  of  fame ! 
Lo !  Newton,  priest  of  nature,  shines  afar. 
Scans  the  wide  world,  and  numbers  every  star ! 
Wilt  thou,  with  him,  mysterious  rites  apply, 
And  watch  the  shrine  with  wonder-beaming  eye! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  mark,  with  magic  art  profoimd. 
The  speed  of  light,  the  circling  march  of  sound ; 
With  Franklin  grasp  the  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heav'n  another  string.  (3) 

"The  Swedish  sage  (4)  admires  in  yonder  bowers, 
His  w inged  insects,  and  his  rosy  flowers ;  . 
Calls  from  their  woodland  haunts  the  savage  train 
With  sounding  horn,  and  counts  them  on  the  plain — 
So  once,  at  Heaven's  command,  the  wand'rers  came 
To  Eden's  shade,  and  heard  their  various  name. 

"  Far  from  the  world,  in  yon  sequester'd  clime, 
Slow  pass  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  more  sublime ; 
Calm  as  the  fields  of  Heav'n  his  sapient  eye 
The  loved  Athenian  lifts  to  realms  on  high. 
Admiring  Plato,  on  his  spotless  page. 
Stamps  the  bright  dictates  of  the  Father  sage : 
'  Shall  Nature  bound  to  Earth's  diurnal  span 
The  fire  of  God,  th'  immortal  soul  of  man  ?' 


r: 


"  Turn,  child  of  Heav'n,  thy  rapture-lighten'd  eye 
To  Wisdom's  walks, — the  sacred  Nine  are  nigh : 
Hark !    from  bright   spires   that  gild  the  Delphian 

height, 
From  streams  that  wander  in  eternal  light. 
Ranged  on  their  hill,  Harmonia's  daughters  swell 
The  mingling  tones  of  horn,  and  harp,  and  shell ; 
Deep  from  his  vaults,  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow,  (5) 
And  Pythia's  awful  organ  peals  below. 

"  Beloved  of  Heav'n !  the  smiling  Muse  shall  shed 
Her  moonlight  halo  on  thy  beauteous  head  ; 
Shall  swell  thy  heart  to  rapture  unconfined. 
And  breathe  a  holy  madness  o'er  thy  mind. 
I  see  thee  roam  her  guardian  pow'r  beneath. 
And  talk  with  spirits  on  the  midnight  heath ; 
Inquire  of  guilty  wand'rers  whence  they  came, 
And  ask  each  blood-stain'd  form  his  earthly  name  ; 
Then  weave  in  rapid  verse  the  deeds  they  tell. 
And  read  the  trembling  world  the  tales  of  hell. 

114 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


"  When  Venus,  throned  in  clouds  of  rosy  hue, 
FHngs  from  her  golden  urn  the  vesper  dew. 
And  bids  fond  man  her  glimmering  noon  employ, 
Sacred  to  love,  and  walks  of  tender  joy ; 
A  milder  mood  the  goddess  shall  recall, 
And  soft  as  dew  thy  tones  of  music  fall ; 
While  Beauty's  deeply-pictured  smiles  impart 
A  pang  more  dear  than  pleasure  to  the  heart — 
Warm  as  thy  sighs  shall  flow  the  Lesbian  strain, 
And  plead  in  Beauty's  ear,  nor  plead  in  vain. 

"  Or  wilt  thou  Orphean  hymns  more  sacred  deem. 
And  steep  thy  song  in  Mercy's  mellow  stream  ? 
To  pensive  drops  the  radiant  eye  beguile — 
-For  Beauty's  tears  are  lovelier  than  her  smile ; — 
On  Nature's  throbbing  anguish  pour  relief? 
And  teach  irapassion'd  souls  the  joy  of  grief? 

"  Yes ;  to  thy  tongue  shall  seraph  words  be  given. 
And  power  on  earth  to  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven ; 
The  proud,  the  cold  untroubled  heart  of  stone, 
That  never  mused  on  sorrow  but  its  own. 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command. 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand.  (6) 
The  living  lumber  of  his  Idndred  earth, 
Charm'd  into  soul,  receives  a  second  birth, 
Feels  thy  dread  power  another  heart  afford, 
■\\Tiose  passion-touch'd  harmonious  strings  accord 
True  as  the  circhng  spheres  to  Nature's  plan ; 
And  man,  the  brother,  lives  the  friend  of  man. 

"  Bi'ight  as  the  pillar  rose  at  Heaven's  command, 
\\'Tien  Israel  march"d  along  the  desert  land. 
Blazed  through  the  night  on  lonely  \\-ilds  afar, 
And  told  the  path, — a  never-setting  star: 
So,  heavenly  Genius,  in  thy  course  divine, 
Hope  is  thy  star,  her  light  is  ever  thine." 

Propitious  Power!  when  rankling  cares  annoy 
The  sacred  home  of  Hym.enean  joy; 
When  doom'd  to  Poverty's  sequester'd  dell, 
The  wedded  pair  of  love  and  virtue  dwell, 
Unpitied  by  the  world,  unknown  to  fame, 
Their  woes,  their  wishes,  and  their  hearts  the  same— 
Oh,  there,  prophetic  Hope  !  thy  smile  bestow. 
And  chase  the  pangs  that  Avorth  should  never  know- 
There,  as  the  parent  deals  his  scanty  store 
To  friendless  babes,  and  weeps  to  give  no  more, 
Tell,  that  his  manly  race  shall  yet  assuage 
Their  father's  viTongs,  and  shield  his  latter  age. 
What  though  for  him  no  Hybla  sweets  distil, 
Nor  bloomy  \-ines  wave  purple  on  the  hill ; 
Tell,  that  when  silent  years  have  pass'd  away. 
That  when  his  eye  grows  dim,  his  tresses  grey, 
These  busy  hands  a  lovelier  cot  shall  build. 
And  deck  with  fairer  flowers  his  little  field. 
And  call  from  Heaven  propitious  dews  to  breathe 
Arcadian  beauty  on  the  barren  heath  ; 
Tell,  that  wliile  Love's  sf)ontaneous  smile  endears 
The  days  of  peace,  the  sabbath  of  his  years, 
Health  shall  prolong  to  many  a  festive  hour 
The  social  pleasures  of  liis  humble  bower. 


Lo !  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty 
Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps  ; 
She,  while  the  lovely  babe  unconscious  lies, 
V    Smiles  on  her  slumbering  child  with  pensive  eyes, 


And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  joy — 

"  Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep,  my  boy : 

No  lingering  hour  of  sorrow  shall  be  thine ; 

No  sigh  that  rends  thy  father's  heart  and  mine , 

Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 

In  form  and  soul ;  but,  ah  !  more  blest  than  he ! 

Thy  fame,  thy  worth,  thy  filial  love,  at  last, 

Shall  soothe  his  aching  heart  for  all  the  past — 

With  many  a  smile  my  solitude  repay, 

And  chase  the  world's  ungenerous  scorn  away. 

"  And  say,  when  summon'd  from  the  world  and 
thee 
I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow-tree. 
Wilt  tliou,  sweet  mourner!  at  my  stone  appear. 
And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near  ? 
Oh,  wilt  thou  come,  at  evening  hour  to  shed 
The  tears  of  Memory  o'er  ray  narrow  bed ; 
With  aching  temples  on  thy  hand  reclined. 
Muse  on  the  last  farewell  I  leave  behind, 
Breathe  a  deep  sigh  to  winds  that  murmur  low 
And  tlaink  on  all  my  love,  and  all  my  woe?" 

So  spealvs  Affection,  ere  the  infant  eye 
Can  look  regard,  or  brighten  in  reply; 
But  when  the  cherub  lip  hath  learnt  to  claim 
A  mother's  ear  by  that  endearing  name ; 
Soon  as  the  playful  innocent  can  prove 
A  tear  of  pity,  or  a  smile  of  love, 
Or  cons  his  murmuring  task  beneath  her  care, 
Or  lisps  w'ith  holy  look  his  evening  prayer, 
Or  gazing,  mutely  pensive,  sits  to  hear 
The  mournful  ballad  warbled  in  liis  ear : 
How  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  Avhile 
At  every  artless  tear,  and  every  smile ! 
How-  glows  the  joyous  parent  to  descry 
A  guileless  bosom,  true  to  sympathy ! 

WTiere  is  the  troubled  heart,  consign'd  to  shar* 
Tumultuous  toils,  or  solitarj'  care, 
Unblest  by  visionary  thoughts  that  stray 
To  count  the  joys  of  Fortune's  better  day! 
Lo,  nature,  life,  and  liberty  relume 
The  dim-eved  tenant  of  the  dungeon  gloom, 
A  long-lost  friend,  or  hapless  child  restored, 
Smiles  at  his  blazing  hearth  and  social  board  ; 
Warm  from  his  heart  the  tears  of  rapture  flov.', 
And  virtue  triumphs  o'er  remember'd  woe. 

Chide  not  his  peace,  proud  Reason !  nor  destroy 
The  shadowy  forms  of  uncreated  joy. 
That  urge  the  lingering  tide  of  life,  and  pour 
Spontaneous  slumber  on  his  midnight  hour. 
Hark !  the  wild  maniac  sings,  to  chide  the  gale 
That  wafts  so  slow  her  lover's  distant  sail : 
She,  sad  spectatress,  on  the  wintry  shore 
Vv'atch'd  the  rude  surge  his  shroudless  corse  that  bore, 
Knew  the  pale  form,  and,  shrieking  in  amaze, 
Clasp'd  her  cold  hands,  and  fix'd  her  maddening  gaze. 
Poor  widow'd  wretch !  't  was  there  she  wept  in  vain, 
Till  Memor\'  fled  her  agonizing  brain : — 
But  Mercy  gave,  to  charm  the  sense  of  woe. 
Ideal  peace,  that  truth  could  ne'er  bestow; 
Warm  on  her  heart  the  joys  of  Fancy  beam, 
And  aimless  Hope  delights  her  darkest  dream. 

Oft  when  yon  moon  has  climb'd  the  midnight  sky, 
And  the  lone  sea-bird  wakes  its  wildest  cry, 

115 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Piled  on  the  steep,  her  blazing  fagots  burn 
To  hail  the  bark  that  never  can  return ; 
And  still  she  waits,  but  scarce  forbears  to  weep 
That  constant  love  can  linger  on  the  deep. 

And,  mark  the  wretch,  whose  wanderings  never  j 
knew 
Ihe  world's  regard,  that  soothes,  though  half  untrue, 
Whose  erring  heart  the  lash  of  sorrow  bore. 
But  found  not  pity  when  it  err'd  no  more. 
Yon  friendless  man,  at  whose  dejected  eye 
Th'  unfeeling  proud  one  looks — and  passes  by, 
Condemn'd  on  Penury's  barren  path  to  roam, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  and  left  without  a  home — 
Even  he,  at  evening,  should  he  chance  to  stray 
Down  by  the  hamlet's  hawthorn-scented  way, 
Where,  round  the  cot's  romantic  glade,  are  seen 
The  blossom'd  bean-field,  and  the  sloping  green. 
Leans  o'er  its  humble  gate,  and  thinks  the  while — 
Oh!  that  forme  some  home  like  this  would  smile, 
Some  hamlet  shade,  to  yield  my  sickly  form 
Health  in  the  breeze,  and  shelter  in  the  storm ! 
There  should  my  hand  no  stinted  boon  assign 
To  wretched  hearts  with  sorrow  such  as  mine ! — 
That  generous  wish  can  soothe  unpitied  care, 
And  Hope  half  mingles  with  the  poor  man's  prayer. 

Hope  !  when  I  mourn,  with  sympathizing  mind, 
The  wrongs  of  fate,  the  woes  of  human  kind, 
Thy  blissful  omens  bid  my  spirit  see 
The  boundless  fields  of  rapture  yet  to  be ; 
I  watch  the  wheels  of  Nature's  mazy  plan, 
And  learn  the  future  by  the  past  of  man. 

Tlome,  bright  Improvement !  on  the  car  of  Time, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime ; 
Thy  handmaid  arts  shall  every  wild  explore. 
Trace  every  wave,  and  culture  every  shore. 
'  On  Erie's  banks,  where  tigers  steal  along. 
And  the  dread  Indian  chants  a  dismal  song. 
Where  human  fiends  on  midnight  errands  walk. 
And  bathe  in  brains  the  murderous  tomahawk ; 
There  shall  the  flocks  on  thymy  pasture  stray, 
And  shepherds  dance  at  Summer's  opening  day ; 
Each  wandering  genius  of  the  lonely  glen 
Shall  start  to  view  the  glittering  haunts  of  men. 
And  silence  watch,  on  woodland  heights  around, 
The  village  curfew  as  it  tolls  profound. 

In  Lvbian  groves,  where  damned  rites  are  done. 
That  bathe  the  rocks  in  blood,  and  veil  the  sun. 
Truth  shall  arrest  the  murd'rous  arm  profane : 
Wild  Obi  flies  (7) — the  veil  is  rent  in  twain. 

Wliere  barbarous  hordes  on  Scythian  mountains 
roara, 
Truth,  Mercy,  Freedom,  yet  shall  find  a  home ; 
Where'er  degraded  Nature  bleeds  and  pines. 
From  Guinea's  coast  to  Sibir's  dreary  mines,  (8) 
Truth  shall  pervade  the  unfathom'd  darkness  there, 
And  light  the  dreadful  features  of  despair. — 
Hark !  the  stem  captive  spurns  his  heaxy  load. 
And  asks  the  image  back  that  Heaven  bestow'd ! 
Fierce  in  his  eye  the  fire  of  valor  burns. 
And,  as  the  slave  departs,  the  man  returns. 

Oh!  sacred  Truth!  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile. 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ce^ed  with  thee  to  smile. 


When  leagued  Oppression  pour'd  to  Northern  wars 
Her  whisker 'd  pandoors  and  her  fierce  hussars. 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  mom, 
Peal'd  her  loud  drum,  and  twang'd  her  trumpet  horn ; 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  I  (9) 

Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  survey'd, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid, — 
Oh!  Heaven!  he  cried,  my  bleedirg  country  save! — 
Is  there  no  hand  on  high  to  .shield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains. 
Rise,  fellow-men!  our  country  yet  remains! 
By  that  dread  name,  we  wave  the  sword  on  high! 
And  swear  for  her  to  live  ! — with  her  to  die ! 

He  said,  and  on  the  rampart-heights  array'd 
His  trusty  warriors,  few.  but  undismay'd  ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm ; 
Low  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly. 
Revenge,  or  death, — the  watch-word  and  reply; 
Then  peal'd  the  notes,  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  toll'd  their  last  alarm ! — 

In  vain,  alas!  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few! 
From  rank  to  rank  your  voUey'd  thunder  flew : — 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  book  of  Time, 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe! 
Dropp'd  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shatter'd  spear 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curb'd  her  high  career ; — ■ 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shriek'd — as  Kosciusko  fell! 

The  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  the  carnage  there 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  air — 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  the  fu-es  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  mumiuring  far  below; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away, 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay! 
Hark !  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call ! 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flash'd  along  the  sky, 
*Vnd  conscious  Nature  shudder'd  at  the  cry! 

Oh !  righteous  Heaven !  ere  Freedom  found  a  grave, 
Why  slept  the  sword,  omnipotent  to  save  ? 
Where  was  thine  arm,  O  vengeance  !  where  thy  rod 
That  smote  the  foes  of  Zion  and  of  God ; 
That  crnsh'd  proud  Ammon,  when  his  iron  car 
Was  yoked  in  wrath,  and  thunder'd  from  afar? 
Where  was  the  storm  that  slumber'd  till  the  host 
Of  blood-stain'd  Pharaoh  left  their  trembling  coast ; 
Then  bade  the  deep  and  wild  commotion  flow, 
And  heaved  an  ocean  on  their  march  below? 

Departed  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
Ye  that  at  Marathon  and  Leuctra  bled  I 
Friends  of  the  world!  restore  your  swords  to  man, 
Fight  in  his  sacred  cause,  and  lead  the  van ! 
Yet  for  Samiatia's  tears  of  blood  atone. 
And  make. her  arm  puissant  as  your  own! 
Oh!  once  again  to  Freedom's  cause  return 
Tlie  patriot  Tell — the  Bruce  of  Bannockbum! 

IIG 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


Yes !  thy  proud  lords,  unpitied  land !  shall  see 
That  man  hath  yet  a  soul — and  dare  be  free ! 
A  little  while,  along  thy  saddening  plains, 
The  starless  night  of  Desolation  reigns  ; 
Truth  shall  restore  the  light  by  Nature  given. 
And,  like  Prometheus,  bring  the  fire  of  Heaven ! 
Prone  to  the  dust  Oppression  shall  be  hurl'd. 
Her  name,  her  nature,  vvilher'd  from  the  world  I 

Ye  that  the  rising  mom  invidious  mark, 
And  hate  the  light — because  yovu-  deeds  are  dark  ; 
Ye  that  expanding  truth  invidious  view, 
And  think,  or  wish,  the  song  of  Hope  untrue  ; 
Perhaps  your  httle  hands  presume  to  span 
The  march  of  Genius,  and  the  powers  of  man ; 
Perhaps  ye  watch,  at  Pride's  unhallow'd  shrine, 
Her  victims,  newly  slain,  and  thus  divine  : — 
"  Here  shall  thy  triumph,  Genius,  cease  ;  and  here 
Truth,  Science,  V^irtue,  close  your  short  career." 

Tyrants !  in  vain  ye  trace  the  wizard  ring ; 
In  vain  ye  limit  Mind's  unwearied  spring  : 
What  I  can  ye  lull  the  winged  winds  asleep, 
Arrest  the  rolling  world,  or  chain  the  deep  ? 
No ! — the  wild  wave  contemns  your  sceptred  hand : 
It  roll'd  not  back  when  Canute  gave  command  I 

Man !  can  thy  doom  no  brighter  soul  allow  ? 
Still  must  thou  live  a  blot  on  Nature's  brow? 
Shall  War's  polluted  banner  ne'er  be  furl'd? 
Shall  crimes  and  tyrants  cease  but  with  the  world? 
What  I  are  thy  triumplis,  sacred  Truth,  belied  ? 
Why  then  hath  Plato  lived — or  Sidney  died  ? 

Ye  fond  adorers  of  departed  fame, 
Who  warm  at  Scipio's  w^orth,  or  Tully's  name ! 
Ye  that,  in  fancied  vision,  can  admire 
The  sword  of  Brutus,  and  the  Theban  lyre ! 
Wrapt  in  historic  ardor,  who  adore 
Each  classic  haunt,  and  well-remember'd  shore, 
Where  Valor  tuned,  amid  her  chosen  throng, 
The  Thracian  trumpet  and  the  Spartan  song : 
Or,  wandering  thence,  behold  the  later  charms 
Of  England's  glory,  and  Helvetia's  arms ! 
See  Roman  fire  in  Hampden's  bosom  swell. 
And  fate  and  freedom  in  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
Say,  ye  fond  zealots  to  the  worth  of  yore, 
Hath  Valor  left  the  world — to  live  no  more  ? 
No  more  shall  Brutus  bid  a  tyrant  die. 
And  sternly  smile  with  vengeance  in  his  eye  ? 
Hampden  no  more,  when  suffering  Freedom  calls. 
Encounter  Fate,  and  triumph  as  he  falls  ; 
Nor  Tell  disclose,  through  peril  and  alarm. 
The  might  that  slumbers  in  a  peasant's  arm  ? 

Yes !  in  that  generous  cause,  for  ever  strong. 
The  patriot's  virtue  and  the  poet's  song. 
Still,  as  the  tide  of  ages  rolls  away, 
Shall  charm  the  world,  unconscious  of  decay ! 

i       Yes !  there  are  hearts,  prophetic  Hope  may  trust, 

i   That  slumber  yet  in  uncreated  dust, 
Ordain'd  to  fire  th'  adoring  sons  of  earth 
W^ith  every  charm  of  wisdom  and  of  worth  ; 
Ordain'd  to  light,  with  intellectual  day. 
The  mazy  wheels  of  Nature  as  they  play 


Or,  warm  with  Fancy's  energy,  to  glow. 
And  rival  all  but  Shakspeare's  name  below ! 

And  say,  supernal  Powers !  who  deeply  scan 
Heaven's  dark  decrees,  unfathom'd  yet  by  man, 
When  shall  the  world  call  down,  to  cleanse  her  shame, 
That  embryo  spirit,  yet  without  a  name, — 
That  friend  of  Nature,  whose  avenging  hands 
Shall  burst  the  Lybian's  adamantine  bands  ? 
Who,  sternl}'^  marlung  on  his  native  soil 
The  blood,  the  tears,  the  anguish  and  the  toil, 
Shall  bid  each  righteous  heart  exult,  to  see 
Peace  to  the  slave,  and  vengeance  on  the  free ! 

Yet,  yet,  degraded  men !  th'  expected  day 
That  breaks  your  bitter  cup,  is  far  away ; 
Trade,  wealth,  and  fashion,  ask  you  still  to  bleed, 
And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed ; 
Scourged,  and  debased,  no  Briton  stoops  to  save 
A  wretch,  a  coward ;  yes,  because  a  slave ! 

Eternal  Nature  !  when  thy  giant  hand 
Had  heaved  the  floods,  and  fix'd  the  trembling  land 
When  life  sprung  starting  at  thy  plastic  call, 
Endless  her  forms,  and  man  the  lord  of  all! 
Say,  was  that  lordly  form  inspired  by  thee. 
To  wear  eternal  chains  and  bow  the  knee  ? 
Was  man  ordain'd  the  slave  of  man  to  toil. 
Yoked  with  the  brutes,  and  fetter'd  to  the  soil ; 
Weigh'd  in  a  tyrant's  balance  Avith  his  gold  ? 
No  I — Nature  stamp'd  us  in  a  heavenly  mould  ! 
She  bade  no  wretch  his  thankless  labor  urge, 
Nor,  trembling,  take  the  pittance  and  the  scourge ! 
No  homeless  Lybian,  on  the  stormy  deep. 
To  call  upon  his  country's  name,  and  weep ! 

Lo !  once  in  triumph,  on  his  boundless  plain. 
The  quiver'd  chief  of  Congo  loved  to  reign ; 
With  fires  proportion'd  to  his  native  sky, 
Strength  in  his  arm,  and  lightning  in  his  eye ; 
Scour'd  with  wild  feet  his  sim-illumined  zone, 
The  spear,  the  lion,  and  the  woods,  his  own! 
Or  led  the  combat,  bold  without  a  plan, 
An  artless  savage,  but  a  fearless  man ! 

The  plunderer  came ! — alas  !  no  glory  smiles 
For  Congo's  cliief  on  yonder  Indian  isles  ; 
For  ever  fall'n !  no  son  of  nature  now, 
With  freedom  charter'd  on  his  manly  brow ! 
Faint,  bleeding,  bound,  he  weeps  the  night  away, 
And  when  the  sea-wind  wafts  the  dewless  day. 
Starts,  v\-ith  a  bursting  heart,  for  ever  more 
To  curse  the  sun  that  lights  their  guilty  shore ! 

The  shrill  horn  blew;  (10)  at  that  alarum  Imell 
His  guardian  angel  took  a  last  farewell  I 
That  funeral  dirge  to  darkness  hath  resign'd 
The  fiery  grandeur  of  a  generous  mind ! 
Poor  fetter'd  man!  I  hear  thee  whispering  low 
Unhallow'd  vows  to  Guilt,  the  child  of  Woe! 
Friendless  thy  heart ;  and  canst  thou  harbor  thero 
A  wish  but  death — a  passion  but  despair  ? 

The  widow'd  Indian,  when  her  lord  expires, 
Mounts  the  dread  pile,  and  braves  the  funeral  fires 
So  falls  the  heart  at  Thraldom's  bitter  sigh! 
So  Virtue  dies,  the  spouse  of  Liberty ! 

117 


6 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  not  to  Lybia's  barren  climes  alone, 
To  Chili,  or  the  wild  Siberian  zone, 
Belong  the  wretched  heart  and  haggard  ej'e, 
Degraded  worth,  and  poor  misfortune's  sigh ! — 
Ye  orient  realms,  where  Ganges'  waters  run  ! 
Prolific  fields  I  dominions  of  the  sun  I 
How  long  your  tribes  have  trembled  and  obey'd ! 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  sway'd,  (11) 
Whose  marshall'd  hosts,  the  lions  of  the  plain, 
From  Scythia's  northern  mountains  to  the  main. 
Raged  o'er  your  plunder'd  shrines  and  altars  bare, 
With  blazing  torch  and  gory  cimeter, — 
Stunn'd  with  the  cries  of  death  each  gentle  gale, 
And  bathed  in  blood  the  verdure  of  the  vale ! 
Yet  could  no  pangs  the  immortal  spirit  tame, 
When  Brama's  children  perish'd  for  his  name ; 
The  mart}T  smiled  beneath  avenging  power, 
And  braved  the  tyrant  in  his  tortiu-ing  hour ! 

When  Europe  sought  your  subject  realms  to  gain. 
And  stretch'd  her  giant  sceptre  o'er  the  main, 
Taught  her  proud  barks  the  winding  way  to  shape. 
And  braved  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape  ;  (12) 
Children  of  Brarna !  then  was  Mercy  nigh 
To  wash  the  stain  of  blood's  eternal  dye  ? 
Did  Peace  descend,  to  triumph  and  to  save, 
When  freebom  Britons  cross'd  the  Indian  wave  ? 
Ah,  no  I — to  more  than  Rome's  ambition  true, 
The  nurse  of  Freedom  gave  it  not  to  you ! 
She  the  bold  route  of  Europe's  guilt  began, 
And,  in  the  march  of  nations,  led  the  van ! 

Rich  in  the  gems  of  India's  gaudy  zone. 
And  plunder  piled  from  kingdoms  not  their  own, 
Degenerate  trade !  thy  minions  could  despise 
The  heart-born  anguish  of  a  thousand  cries ; 
Could  lock,  with  impious  hands,  their  teeming  store. 
While  famish'd  nations  died  along  the  shore  :  (13) 
Could  mock  the  groans  of  fellow-men,  and  bear 
The  curse  of  Idngdoms  peopled  with  despair  ; 
Could  stamp  disgrace  on  man's  polluted  name. 
And  barter,  with  their  gold,  eternal  shame  I 

But  hark !  as  bow'd  to  earth  the  Bramin  kneels, 
From  heavenly  climes  propitious  thunder  peals  ; 
Of  India's  fate  her  guardian  spirits  tell. 
Prophetic  murmurs  breathing  on  the  shell, 
And  soleron  sounds,  that  awe  the  list'ning  mind, 
RoU  on  the  azure  paths  of  every  wind. 

"  Foes  of  mankind !  (her  guardian  spirits  say,) 
Revoh-ing  ages  bring  the  bitter  day. 
When  Heaven's  unerring  arm  shall  fall  on  you, 
And  blood  for  blood  these  Indian  plains  bedew ; 
Nine  times  have  Brama  's  w  heels  of  lightning  hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world  ;  u4) 
Nine  times  hath  Guilt,  through  all  his  giant  frame, 
Con\-ulsive  trembled,  as  the  Mightj'  came ; 
Nine  times  hath  suffering  Mercy  spared  in  vain — 
But  Heaven  shall  burst  her  starry  gates  again ! 
He  comes  !  dread  Brama  shakes  the  sunless  sky 
With  murmuring  wrath,  and  thunders  from  on  high. 
Heaven's  fierv'  horse,  beneath  his  warrior  form. 
Paws  the  light  clouds,  and  gallops  on  the  storm ! 
Wide  waves  his  flickering  sword ;  his  bright  arms 

glow- 
like  summer  suns,  and  light  the  world  below ! 


Earth,  and  her  trembling  isles  ih  Ocean's  bed. 
Are  shook ;  and  Nature  rocks  beneath  his  tread ! 

"  To  pour  redress  on  India's  injured  realm, 
The  oppressor  to  dethrone,  the  proud  to  w  helm ; 
To  chase  destruction  from  her  plunder'd  shore 
With  arts  and  arms  that  triuraph'd  once  before. 
The  tenth  Avatar  comes !  at  Heaven's  command 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallow'd  wand  I 
And  Camdeo  bright,  and  Ganes.i  sublime,  (15) 
Shall  bless  with  joy  their  own  propitious  clime  I — 
Come,  Heavenly  Powers  !  primeval  peace  restore ! 
Love  I — Mercy  I — Wisdom  ! — rule  for  evermore  !" 


PART  IL 

ANALYSIS. 

Apostrophe  to  the  power  of  Love — its  intimate 
connexion  with  generous  and  social  sensibility — 
allusion  to  that  beautiful  passage  in  the  beginning  of 
the  book  of  Genesis,  which  represents  the  happiness 
of  Paradise  itself  incomplete,  till  Love  was  super- 
added to  its  other  blessings — the  dreams  of  future 
felicity  which  a  lively  imagination  is  apt  to  cherish, 
when  Hope  is  animated  by  refined  attachment — this 
disposition  to  combine,  in  one  imaginary  scene  of 
residence,  all  that  is  pleasing  in  our  estimate  of  hap- 
piness, compared  to  the  skill  of  the  great  artist  who 
personified  perfect  beaut)%  in  the  picture  of  Venus,  by 
an  assemblage  of  the  most  beautiful  features  he 
could  find — a  summer  and  winter  evening  described, 
as  they  may  be  supposed  to  arise  in  the  mind  of  one 
who  wishes,  with  enthusiasm,  for  the  union  of  friend- 
ship and  retirement. 

Hope  and  Imagination  inseparable  agents — even 
in  those  contemplative  moments  when  our  imagina- 
tion wanders  beyond  the  boundaries  of  this  world, 
our  minds  are  not  unattended  with  an  impression 
that  we  shall  some  day  have  a  wider  and  distinct 
prospect  of  the  imi verse,  instead  of  the  partial  glimpse 
we  now  enjoy. 

The  last  and  most  sublime  influence  of  Hope  is  the 
concluding  topic  of  the  poem — the  predominance  of 
a  belief  in  a  future  state  over  the  terrors  attendant 
on  dissolution — the  baneful  influence  of  that  seep- ; 
tical  philosophy  which  bars  us  from  such  comforts 
allusion  to  the  fate  of  a  suicide— episode  of  Conrad 
and  EUinore — conclusion. 


In  joyous  youth,  what  soul  hath  never  known 
Tliought,  feeling,  taste,  harmonious  to  its  own  ? 
Who  hath  not  paused  while  Beauty's  pensive  eye 
Ask'd  from  his  heart  the  homage  of  a  sigh  ? 
Who  hath  not  own'd,  with  rapture-smitten  frame. 
The  power  of  grace,  the  magic  of  a  name  ? 

There  be,  perhaps,  who  barren  hearts  avow 
Cold  as  the  rocks  on  Torneo's  hoary  brow ! 
There  be,  whose  loveless  wisdom  never  fail'd, 
In  self-adoring  pride  securely  mail'd  ; — 
But,  triumph  not,  ye  peace-enamour'd  few ! 
Fire,  Nature,  Genius,  never  dwelt  with  you ! 
For  you  no  fancy  consecrates  the  scene 
Where  rapture  utter'd  vows,  and  wept  between ; 
'T  is  yours,  unmoved,  to  sever  and  to  meet ; 
No  pledge  is  sacred,  and  no  home  is  sweet ! 

118 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


Who  that  would  ask  a  heart  to  dullness  wed, 
The  waveless  calm,  the  slumber  of  the  dead  ? 
No ;  the  wild  bhss  of  Nature  needs  alloy, 
And  fear  and  sorrow  fan  the  fire  of  joy ! 
And  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears, 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh  !  what  were  man  ? — a  world  without  a  sun. 

Till  HjTnen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour. 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower ! 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraph  lingering  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charm'd  the  silent  air; 
In  vain  the  wild-bird  caroll'd  on  the  steep. 
To  hail  the  sun,  slow  wheeling  from  the  deep  ; 
In  vain,  to  soothe  the  solitary  shade, 
Aerial  notes  in  mingling  measure  play'd ; 
The  summer  -w-ind  that  shook  the  spangled  tree. 
The  whispering  wave,  the  murmur  of  the  bee ; — 
Still  slowly  pass'd  the  melancholy  day, 
And  still  the  stranger  wist  not  where  to  stray. 
The  world  was  sad ! — the  garden  was  a  wild ; 
And  man,  the  hermit,  sigh'd — till  woman  smiled ! 

True,  the  sad  power  to  generous  hearts  may  bring 
Delirious  anguish  on  his  fiery  wing ; 
Barr'd  from  delight  by  fate's  untimely  hand. 
By  wealthless  lot,  or  pitiless  command  ; 
Or  doora'd  to  gaze  on  beauties  that  adorn 
The  smile  of  triumph,  or  the  frowTi  of  scorn  ; 
■WTiile  Memory  watches  o'er  the  sad  review. 
Of  joys  that  faded  hke  the  morning  dew ; 
Peace  may  depart — and  life  and  nature  seem 
A  barren  path,  a  wildness,  and  a  dream ! 

But  can  the  noble  mind  for  ever  brood. 
The  wilhng  victim  of  a  weary  mood. 
On  heartless  cares  that  squander  life  away. 
And  cloud  young  Genius  brightening  into  day  ? — 
Shame  to  the  coward  thought  that  e'er  betray 'd 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade ! — (16) 
If  Hope's  creative  spirit  cannot  raise 
One  trophy  sacred  to  thy  future  days. 
Scorn  the  dull  crowd  that  haunt  the  gloomy  shrine. 
Of  hopeless  love  to  murmur  and  repine ! 
But,  should  a  sigh  of  milder  mood  express 
Thy  heart-warm  wishes,  true  to  happiness, 
Should  Heaven's  fair  harbinger  delight  to  pour 
Her  blissful  visions  on  thy  pensive  hour. 
No  tear  to  blot  thy  memory's  pictured  page. 
No  fears  but  such  as  fancy  can  assuage : 
Though  thy  wild  heart  some  hapless  hour  may  miss 
The  peaceful  tenor  of  unvaried  bliss 
(For  love  pursues  an  ever-devious  race. 
True  to  the  winding  lineaments  of  grarel ; 
Yet  still  may  Hope  her  talisman  employ 
To  snatch  from  Heaven  anticipated  joy. 
And  all  her  kindred  energies  impart 
That  burn  the  brightest  in  the  purest  heart. 

When  first  the  Rhodian's  mimic  art  array'd 
The  queen  of  Beauty  in  her  Cyprian  shade. 
The  happy  master  mingled  on  his  piece 
Each  look  that  charm'd  him  in  the  fair  of  Greece. 
To  faultless  Nature  true,  he  stole  a  grace 
From  every  finer  form  and  sweeter  face ; 


And  as  he  sojourn'd  on  the  .^gean  isles, 
Woo'd  all  their  love,  and  treasured  all  their  smiles ; 
Then  glow'd  the  tints,  pure,  precious,  and  refined, 
And  mortal  charms  seem'd  heavenly,  when  combined  ♦ 
Love  on  the  picture  smiled  I  Expression  pour'd 
Her  mingling  spirit  there — and  Greece  adored ! 

So  thy  fair  hand,  enamour'd  Fancy !  gleans 
The  treasured  pictures  of  a  thousand  scenes ; 
Thy  pencil  traces  on  the  lover's  thought 
Some  cottage-home,  from  towns  and  toil  remote, 
Where  love  and  lore  may  claim  alternate  houi-s. 
With  Peace  embosom'd  in  Idahan  bowers ! 
Remote  from  busy  Life's  bewilder'd  way. 
O'er  all  his  heart  shall  Taste  and  Beauty  sway ! 
Free  on  the  sunny  slope,  or  winding  shore, 
With  hermit  steps  to  wander  and  adore ! 
There  shall  he  love,  when  genial  mom  appears, 
Like  pensive  Beauty  smiling  in  her  tears. 
To  watch  the  brightening  roses  of  the  sky. 
And  muse  on  Nature  with  a  Poet's  eye ! — 
And  when  the  sun's  last  splendor  lights  the  deep, 
The  woods  and  waves,  and  murmuring  winds  asleep, 
When  fairy  harps  th'  Hesperian  planet  hail. 
And  the  lone  cuckoo  sighs  along  the  vale. 
His  path  shall  be  where  streamy  mountains  swell 
Their  shadowy  grandeur  o'er  the  narrow  dell. 
Where  mouldering  piles  and  forests  intervene, 
Mingling  with  darker  tints  the  living  green ; 
No  circling  hills  his  ravish'd  eye  to  bound. 
Heaven,  Earth,  and  Ocean,  blazing  all  around. 

The  moon  is  up — the  watch-tower  dimly  burns— 
And  down  the  vale  his  sober  step  returns  ; 
But  pauses  oft,  as  winding  rocks  convey 
The  still  sweet  fall  of  music  far  away ; 
And  oft  he  lingers  from  his  home  awhile 
To  watch  the  dying  notes  I — and  start,  and  smile ! 

Let  Winter  come  !  let  polar  spirits  sweep 
The  darkening  world,  and  tempest-troubled  deep ! 
Though  boundless  snows  the  wither'd  heath  deform 
And  the  dim  sun  scarce  wanders  through  the  storm 
Yet  shall  the  smile  of  social  love  repay. 
With  mental  light,  the  melancholy  day ! 
And,  when  its  short  and  sullen  noon  is  o'er. 
The  ice-chain'd  waters  slumbering  on  the"  shore, 
How  bright  the  fagots  in  his  little  hall 
Blaze  on  the  hearth,  and  warm  the  pictured  wall! 

How  blest  he  names,  in  Love's  famihar  tone, 
Tlie  kind,  fair  friend,  by  Nature  mark'd  his  own ; 
And,  in  the  waveless  mirror  of  his  mind. 
Views  the  fleet  years  of  pleasure  left  behind, 
Since  Anna's  empire  o'er  his  heart  began  I 
Since  first  he  call'd  her  his  before  the  holy  man . 

Trim  the  gay  taper  in  his  rustic  dome. 
And  light  the  wintry  paradise  of  home ; 
And  let  the  half-uncurtain'd  window  hail 
Some  way-worn  man  benighted  in  tho  vale ! 
Now%  while  the  moaning  night-wind  rages  high, 
As  sweep  the  shot-stars  down  the  troubled  sky, 
While  fiery  hosts  in  Heaven's  wide  circle  play, 
And  bathe  in  lurid  light  the  milky-way. 
Safe  from  the  storm,  the  meteor,  and  the  shower, 
Some  pleasing  page  shall  charm  the  solemn  hour — 

119 


8 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Willi  pathos  shall  command,  with  wit,  beguile, 
A  generous  tear  of  anguish,  or  a  smile — 
Thy  woes,  Arion!  (17)  and  thy  simple  tale, 
O'er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail ! 
Charm'd  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true, 
How  gallant  Albert,  and  his  weary  crew, 
Heaved  all  their  guns,  their  foundering  bark  to  save. 
And  toil'd — and  shriek'd — and  perish'd  on  the  wave ! 

Yes,  at  the  dead  of  night,  by  Lonna's  steep, 
The  seaman's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep ; 
There,  on  his  funeral  waters,  dark  and  wild, 
The  dying  father  blest  his  darling  child! 
Oh !  Mercy,  shield  her  innocence,  he  cried, 
Spent  on  the  prayer  his  bursting  heart,  and  died ! 

Or  they  will  learn  how  generous  worth  sublimes 
The  robber  Moor,  (18)  and  pleads  for  all  his  crimes  I 
How  poor  Amelia  kiss'd,  with  many  a  tear, 
His  hand  blood-stain'd,  but  ever,  ever  dear! 
Hung  on  the  tortured  bosom  of  her  lord, 
And  wept  and  pray'd  perdition  from  his  sword ! 
Nor  sought  in  vain !  at  that  heart-piercing  cry 
The  strings  of  Nature  crack'd  \A-ith  agony  ! 
He,  with  delirious  laugh,  the  dagger  hurl'd. 
And  burst  the  lies  thai  bound  him  to  the  world ! 

Turn  from  his  dying  words,  that  smite  vdth  steel 
The  shuddering  thoughts,  or  wind  them  on  the  wheel — 
Turn  to  the  gentler  melodies  that  suit 
Thalia's  harp,  or  Pan's  Arcadian  lute  : 
Or,  down  the  stream  of  Truth's  historic  page, 
From  clime  to  clime  descend,  from  age  to  age ! 

Yet  there,  perhaps,  may  darker  scenes  obtrude 
Than  Fancy  fashions  in  her  wildest  mood  ; 
There  shall  he  pause  with  horrent  brow,  to  rate 
What  millions  died — that  Cagsar  might  be  great  !(19) 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
March'd    by    their   Charles    to   Dnieper's   swampy 

shore ;  (20) 
Faint  in  his  wounds,  and  shivering  in  the  blast. 
The  Swedish  soldier  sunk — and  groan'd  his  last ! 
File  after  file  the  stormy  showers  benumb, 
Freeze  every  standard-sheet,  and  hush  the  drum ! 
Horseman  and  horse  confess'd  the  bitter  pang. 
And  arms  and  warriors  fell  with  hollow  clang ! 
Yet,  ere  he  sunk  in  Nature's  last  repose. 
Ere  life's  warm  torrent  to  the  fountain  froze, 
The  dying  man  fo  Sweden  turn'd  his  eye. 
Thought  of  his  home,  and  closed  it  with  a  sigh ! 
Imperial  Pride  look'd  sullen  on  his  plight. 
And  Charles  beheld — nor  shudder'd  at  the  sight ! 

Above,  below,  in  Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 
Thy  fairy  worlds,  Imagination,  lie. 
And  Hope  attends,  companion  of  the  way. 
Thy  dream  by  night,  thy  visions  of  the  day  I 
In  yonder  pensile  orb,  and  every  sphere 
That  gems  the  starry'  girdle  of  the  year; 
In  those  unmeasured  worlds,  she  bids  thee  tell, 
Pure  from  their  God,  created  millions  dwell. 
Whose  names  and  natures,  unreveal'd  below. 
We  yet  shall  learn,  and  wonder  as  we  know; 
For,  as  Zona's  saint,  (21)  a  giant  form. 
Throned  on  her  towers,  conversing  with  the  storm 
(When  o'er  each  Runic  altar,  weed-entwined, 


The  vesper-clock  tolls  mournful  to  the  wind). 
Counts  every  wave-worn  isle,  and  mountain  hoar 
From  Kilda  to  the  green  lerne's  shore ; 
So,  when  thy  pure  and  renovated  mind 
This  perishable  dust  hath  left  behind, 
Thy  seraph  eye  shall  count  the  starry  train, 
Like  distant  isles  embosom'd  in  the  main ; 
Rapt  to  the  shrine  where  motion  first  began, 
And  hght  and  life  in  mingling  torrpnt  ran ; 
From  whence  each  bright  rotundity  was  hurl'd, 
The  throne  of  God — the  centre  of  the  world ! 

Oh !  vainly  wdse,  the  moral  muse  hath  sung 
That  suasive  Hope  hath  but  a  Syren  tongue ! 
True  ;  she  may  sport  with  life's  untutor'd  day 
Nor  heed  the  solace  of  its  last  decay. 
The  guileless  heart  her  happy  mansion  spurn, 
And  part,  like  Ajut — never  to  return!  (22) 

But  yet,  methinks,  when  Wisdom  shall  assuage 
The  grief  and  passions  of  our  greener  age, 
Though  dull  the  close  of  life,  and  far  away 
Each  flower  that  hail'd  the  dawning  of  the  day ; 
Yet  o'er  her  lovely  hopes,  that  once  were  dear, 
The  time-taught  spirit,  pensive,  not  severe. 
With  milder  griefs  her  aged  eye  shall  fill. 
And  weep  their  falsehood,  though  she  love  them  still ! 

Thus,  with  forgiving  tears,  and  reconciled. 
The  king  of  Judah  mourn'd  his  rebel  child  I 
Musing  on  days,  when  yet  the  guiltless  boy 
Smiled  on  his  sire,  and  fill'd  his  heart  with  joy ! 
My  Absalom!  the  voice  of  Nature  cried : 
Oh !  that  for  thee  thy  father  could  have  died ! 
For  bloody  was  the  deed,  and  rashly  done. 
That  slew  my  Absalom ! — my  son ! — my  son ! 

Unfading  Hope  !  when  life's  last  embers  bum 
\Vhen  soul  to  soul,  and  dust  to  dust  return ! 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour ; 
Oh !  then,  thy  kingdom  comes !  immortal  Power  • 
What  though  each  spark  of  earth-born  rapture  fl> 
The  quivering  lip,  pale  cheek,  and  closing  eye  I 
Bright  to  the  soul  thy  seraph  hands  convey 
The  morning  dream  of  lifes  eternal  day — 
Then,  then,  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  phoenix  spirit  burns  within ! 

Oh !  deep-enchanting  prelude  to  repose, 
The  dawn  of  bliss,  the  twilight  of  our  woes! 
Yet  half  I  hear  the  panting  spirit  sigh, 
It  is  a  dread  and  awful  thing  to  die ! 
Mysterious  worlds,  untravell'd  by  the  sun, 
Where  Time's  far-w  andering  tide  has  never  run. 
From  your  unfathom'd  shades,  and  viewless  spheres, 
A  warning  comes,  unheard  by  other  ears. 
'Tis  Heaven's  commanding  trumpet,  long  and  loud^ 
Like  Sinai's  thunder,  pealing  from  the  cloud ! 
While  Nature  hears,  with  terror-mingled  trust. 
The  shock  that  hurls  her  fabric  to  the  dust ; 
And,  like  the  trembling  Hebrew,  when  he  trod 
The  roaring  waves,  and  call'd  upon  his  God, 
With  mortal  terrors  clouds  immortal  bhss. 
And  shrieks,  and  hovers  o'er  the  dark  abyss ! 

Daughter  of  Faith!  awake,  arise,  illume 
The  dread  unknow  n,  the  chaos  of  the  tomb ; 

120 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


Melt,  and  dispel,  ye  spectre-doubts,  that  roll 
Cimmerian  darkness  on  the  parting  soul  I 
Fly,  like  the  moon-eyed  herald  of  dismay, 
Chased  on  his  night-steed  by  the  star  of  day ! 
The  strife  is  o'er — the  pangs  of  Nature  close. 
And  life's  last  rapture  triumphs  o'er  her  woes. 
Hark !  as  the  spirit  eyes,  -with  eagle  gaze, 
The  noon  of  Heaven  undazzled  by  the  blaze. 
On  heavenly  winds  that  waft  her  to  the  sky. 
Float  the  sweet  tones  of  star-born  melody; 
Wild  as  that  hallo w'd  anthem  sent  to  hail 
Bethlehem's  shepherds  in  the  lonely  vale, 
When  Jordan  hush'd  his  waves,  and  midnight  still 
Watch'd  on  the  holy  towers  of  Zion  hill  I 

Soul  of  the  just!  companion  of  the  dead! 
Where  is  thy  home,  and  whither  art  thou  fled  ? 
Back  to  its  heavenly  source  thy  being  goes. 
Swift  as  the  comet  wheels  to  whence  he  rose  ; 
Doom'd  on  his  airy  path  awhile  to  burn. 
And  doom'd,  lilce  thee,  to  travel,  and  return. — 
Hark!  from  the  world's  exploding  centre  driven. 
With  sounds  that  shook  the  firmament  of  Heaven, 
Careers  the  fiery  giant,  fast  and  far, 
On  bickering  wheels,  and  adamantine  car  ,• 
From  planet  whirl'd  to  planet  more  remote. 
He  \-isits  realms  beyond  the  reach  of  thought; 
But  wheeling  homeward,  when  his  course  is  run. 
Curbs  the  red  yoke,  and  mingles  with  the  sim ! 
So  hath  the  traveller  of  eartli  unfurl'd 
Her  trembling  wings,  emerging  from  the  world ; 
And  o'er  the  path  by  mortal  never  trod, 
Sprung  to  her  source,  tlie  bosom  of  her  God ! 

Oh !  lives  there,  Heaven !  beneath  thy  dread  expanse, 
One  hopeless,  dark  idolater  of  Chance, 
Content  to  feed,  with  pleasures  unrefined. 
The  lukewarm  passions  of  a  lowly  mind ; 
"Who,  mouldering  earthward,  'reft  of  every  trust, 
In  joyless  union  wedded  to  the  dust, 
Could  all  his  parting  energy  dismiss. 
And  call  this  barren  world  stifficient  bliss  ? — 
There  live,  alas !  of  heaven-directed  mien. 
Of  cultured  soul,  and  sapient  eye  serene, 
Who  hail  thee,  Man !  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
Spouse  of  the  worm,  and  brother  of  the  clay, 
Frail  as  the  leaf  in  Autumn's  yellow  bower, 
Dust  in  the  wind,  or  dew  upon  the  flower; 
A  friendless  slave,  a  child  without  a  sire, 
Whose  mortal  hfe,  and  momentaiy  fire. 
Lights  to  the  grave  his  chance-created  foym, 
As  ocean-wrecks  illuminate  the  storm  ; 
And,  when  the  gun's  tremendous  flash  is  o'er, 
To  night  and  silence  sink  for  evermore ! — 

Are  these  the  pompous  tidings  ye  proclaim, 
Lights  of  the  world,  and  demi-gods  of  Fame  ? 
Is  this  your  triumph — this  your  proud  applause. 
Children  of  Truth,  and  champions  of  her  cause  ? 
For  this  has  Science  search'd,  on  weary  wing, 
By  shore  and  sea — each  mute  and  living  thing ! 
Launch'd  with  Iberia's  pilot  from  the  steep, 
To  worlds  tmknown,  and  isles  beyond  the  deep  ? 
Or  round  the  cope  her  living  chariot  driven, 
And  wheel'd  in  triumph  through  the  signs  of  Heaven  ? 
16  L 


Oh!  star-eyed  Science,  hast  thou  wander'd  there, 
To  waft  us  home  the  message  of  d 


espair 


Then  bind  the  palm,  thy  sage's  brow  to  suit, 
Of  blasted  leaf,  and  death-distilling  fruit ! 
Ah  me  !  the  laurell'd  wreath  that  Murder  rears, 
Blood-nursed,  and  water'd  by  the  widow's  tears, 
Seems  not  so  foul,  so  tainted,  and  so  dread, 
As  waves  the  night-shade  round  the  sceptic  head. 
What  is  the  bigot's  torch,  the  tyrant's  chain  ? 
I  smile  on  death,  if  Heaven-ward  Hope  remain! 
But,  if  the  warring  winds  of  Nature's  strife 
Be  all  the  faithless  charter  of  my  life, 
If  Chance  awaked,  inexorable  power, 
This  frail  and  feverisli  being  of  an  hour ; 
Doom'd  o"er  the  world's  precarious  scene  to  sweep, 
Swift  as  the  tempest  travels  on  the  deep. 
To  know  Delight  but  by  her  parting  smile. 
And  toil,  and  wish,  and  weep  a  little  while ; 
Then  melt,  ye  elements,  that  form'd  in  vain 
This  troubled  pulse,  and  visionary  brain ! 
Fade,  ye  wild  flowers,  memorials  of  my  doom, 
And  sink,  ye  stars,  that  light  me  to  the  tomb ! 
Truth,  ever  lovely, — since  the  world  began, 
The  foe  of  tyrants,  and  the  friend  of  man, — 
How  can  thy  words  from  balmy  slumber  start 
Reposing  Virtue,  pillow'd  on  the  heart !  > 

Yet,  if  thy  voice  the  note  of  thunder  roll'd, 
And  that  were  true  which  Nature  never  told, 
Let  Wisdom  smile  not  on  her  conquer'd  field ; 
No  rapture  dawns,  no  treasiu-e  is  reveal'd!. 
Oh!  let  her  read,  nor  loudly,  nor  elate, 
The  doom  that  bars  us  from  a  better  fate ; 
But,  sad  as  angels  for  the  good  man's  sin, 
Weep  to  record,  and  blush  to  give  it  in ! 

And  well  may  Doubt,  the  mother  of  Dismay, 
Pause  at  her  martyr's  tomb,  and  read  the  lay. 
Down  by  the  wilds  of  yon  deserted  vale, 
It  darkly  hints  a  melancholy  tale ! 
There,  as  the  homeless  madman  sits  alone, 
In  hollow  w  inds  he  hears  a  spirit  moan ! 
And  there,  they  say,  a  wizard  orgie  crowds. 
When  the  Moon  lights  her  watch-tower  in  the  cloudS: 
Poor  lost  Alonzo!  Fate's  neglected  child  ! 
Mild  be  the  doom  of  Heaven — as  thou  wert  mild! 
For  oh !  thy  heart  in  holy  mould  was  cast. 
And  all  thy  deeds  were  blameless,  but  the  last. 
Poor  lost  Alonzo !  still  I  seem  to  hear 
The  clod  that  struck  thy  hollow-sounding  bier ! 
When  Friendship  paid,  in  speechless  sorrow  dro^^•n'd,■ 
Thy  midnight  rites,  but  not  on  hallow 'd  ground ! 

Cease,  every  joy,  to  glimmer  on  my  mind. 
But  leave — oh  !  leave  the  light  of  Hope  behind  ! 
What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been. 
Like  angel-visits,  few  and  far  between. 
Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 
And  charm — when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please! 
Yes,  let  each  rapture,  dear  to  Nature,  flee : 
Close  not  the  light  of  Fortune's  stormy  sea — 
Mirth,  Music,  Friendship,  Love's  propitious  smile, 
Chase  every  care,  and  charm  a  little  while. 
Ecstatic  throbs  the  fluttering  heart  employ. 
And  all  her  strings  are  harmonized  to  joy! — 
But  why  so  short  is  Love's  delighted  hoiu-  ? 
Why  fades  the  dew  on  Beauty's  sweetest  flower  t 

121 


10 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Why  can  no  hymnod  charm  of  music  heal 
The  sleepless  woes  impassion'd  spirits  feel  ? 
Can  Fancy's  fairy  hands  no  veil  create, 
To  hide  the  sad  realities  of  fate  1 

No!  not  the  quaint  remark,  the  sapient  rule, 
Nor  all  the  pride  of  Wisdom's  worldly  school. 
Have  power  to  soothe,  unaided  and  alone, 
The  heart  that  vibrates  to  a  feeling  tone ! 
When  stejxlame  Nature  every  bliss  recalls. 
Fleet  as  the  meteor  o'er  the  desert  falls  ; 
When,  'reft  of  all,  yon  widow'd  sire  appears 
A  lonely  hermit  in  the  vale  of  years ; 
Say,  can  the  world  one  joyous  thought  bestow 
To  Friendship,  weeping  at  the  couch  of  Woe  ? 
No !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu, — 
Souls  of  impassion'd  mould,  she  spealvs  to  you  ! 
Weep  not,  she  says,  at  Nature's  transient  pain, 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again ! 

What  plaintive  sobs  thy  fdial  spirit  drew, 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu ! 
Daughter  of  Conrad !  when  he  heard  his  knell, 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell ! 
Doom' d  the  long  isles  of  Sydney-cove  to  see. 
The  martyr  of  his  crimes,  but  true  to  thee  ? 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart. 
And  thrice  return'd,  to  bless  thee,  and  to  part  ; 
Thrice  from  his  trembling  lips  he  murmur'd  low 
The  plaint  that  own'd  unutterable  woe ; 
Till  Faith,  prevailing  o'er  his  sullen  doom, 
As  bursts  the  morn  on  night's  unfathom'd  gloom, 
Lured  his  dim  eye  to  deathless  hopes  sublime. 
Beyond  the  realms' of  Nature  and  of  Time! 

"And  weep  not  thus,"  he  cried,  "young  Ellenore, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more ! 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguish'd  spirit  bum, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return! 
But  not,  my  child,  with  hfe's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  nature  shall  expire ; 
These  shall  resist  the  triumph  of  decay. 
When  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  passed  away! 
Cold  in  the  dust  this  perish'd  heart  may  lie. 
But  that  whicli  warm'd  it  once  shall  never  die ; 
That  spark  unburied  in  its  mortal  frame 
With  living  light,  eternal,  and  the  same. 
Shall  beam  on  Joy's  interminable  years, 
Unveil'd  by  darkness — unassuaged  by  tears ! 

"Yet  on  the  barren  shore  and  stormy  deep^ 
One  tedious  watch  is  Conrad  doom'd  to  weep ; 
But  when  I  gain  the  home  without  a  friend. 
And  press  the  uneasy  couch  where  none  attend. 
This  last  embrace,  still  cherish'd  in  my  heart. 
Shall  calm  the  struggling  spirit  ere  it  part ! 
Thy  darling  form  shall  seem  to  hover  nigh. 
And  hush  the  groan  of  life's  last  agony ! 

"  Farewell !  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier. 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear  ; 
When  each  returning  pledge  hath  told  my  child 
That  Conrad's  tomb  is  on  the  desert  piled  ; 
And  when  the  dream  of  troubled  Fancy  sees 
Its  lonely  rank  grass  waving  in  the  breeze ; 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief,  when  mine  is  o'er  ? 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Ellenore  ? 


Shall  secret  scenes  thy  filial  sorrows  hide, 
Scorn'd  by  the  world,  to  factious  guilt  allied  ? 
Ah!  no:  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude  ! 
O'er  friendless  grief  compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  on  Innocence,  for  Mercy's  sake !" 

Inspiring  thought  of  rapture  yet  to  be, 
The  tears  of  Love  w  ere  hopeless,  but  for  thee ! 
If  in  that  frame  no  deathless  spirit  dwell. 
If  that  faint  murmur  be  the  last  farewell, 
If  Fate  unite  the  faithful  but  to  part. 
Why  is  their  memory  sacred  to  the  heart  ? 
Why  does  the  brother  of  my  childhood  seem 
Restored  awhile  in  every  pleasing  dream  ? 
Why  do  I  joy  the  lonely  spot  to  view, 
By  artless  friendship  bless'd  w  hen  life  was  new  ? 

Eternal  Hope  !  when  yonder  spheres  sublime 
Peal'd  their  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  Time» 
Thy  joyous  youth  began — but  not  to  fade. — 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decay'd ; 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow. 
And  Heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  world  below 
Thou,  undismay'd,  shalt  o'er  the  ruins  smile. 
And  hght  thy  torch  at  Nature's  funeral  pile ! 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  2,  col.  1 

And  such  thy  strength-inspirine;  aid  that  bore 
The  hardy  Byron  to  his  native  shore. 

The  following  picture  of  his  own  distress,  given 
by  Byron  in  his  simple  and  interesting  narrative, 
justifies  the  description  in  page  2. 

After  relating  the  barbarity  of  the  Indian  cacique 
to  his  child,  he  proceeds  thus  : — "A  day  or  two  after, 
we  put  to  sea  again,  and  crossed  the  great  bay  I  men- 
tioned we  had  been  at  the  bottom  of  when  we  first 
hauled  away  to  the  westward.  The  land  here  was 
very  low  and  sandy,  and  something  like  the  mouth 
of  a  river  which  discharged  itself  into  the  sea,  and 
which  had  been  taken  no  notice  of  by  us  before,  as 
it  was  so  shallow  that  the  Indians  were  obliged  to 
take  everything  out  of  their  canoes,  and  carrj'  them 
overland.  We  row'ed  up  the  river  four  or  five  leagues, 
and  then  took  into  a  branch  of  it  that  ran  first  to  the 
eastward,  and  then  to  the  northward  :  here  it  became,' 
much  narrower,  and  the  stream  excessively  rapid,  so, 
that  we  gained  but  little  way,  though  we  wrought 
very  hard.  At  night  we  landed  upon  its  banks,  and' 
had  a  most  uncomfortable  lodging,  it  being  a  perfect 
swamp,  and  we  had  nothing  to  cover  us,  though  it  rain- 1 
ed  excessively.  The  Indians  were  little  better  off  than 
we,  as  there  w  as  no  wood  here  to  make  their  wigwams; 
so  that  all  they  could  do  was  to  prop  up  the  bark,,; 
which  they  carry  in  the  bottom  of  their  canoes,  and,'! 
shelter  themselves  as  well  as  they  could  to  the  leeward 
of  it.  Knowing  the  difficulties  they  had  to  encounter 
here,  they  had  pro\-ided  themselves  with  some  seal ; 
but  we  had  not  a  morsel  to  eat,  after  the  hea^-y  fa-, 
tigues  of  the  day,  excepting  a  sort  of  root  we  saw  the  i 

122 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 


11 


Indians  make  use  of,  which  was  very  disagreeable  to  nature  by  the  blasphemous   thanks  offered    up    to 


the  taste.  We  labored  all  next  day  against  the  stream, 
and  fared  as  we  had  done  the  day  before.  The  next 
day  brought  us  to  the  carrying-place.  Here  was  plenty 
of  wood,  but  nothing  to  be  got  for  sustenance.  We 
passed  this  night,  as  we  had  frequently  done,  under  a 
tree  ;  but  what  we  suffered  at  this  time  is  not  easy  to 
be  expressed.  I  had  been  three  days  at  the  oar  with- 
out any  kind  of  nourishment  except  the  wretched 
root  above  mentioned.  I  had  no  shirt,  for  it  had  rot- 
ted off  by  bits.  All  my  clothes  consisted  of  a  short 
grieko  (something  like  a  bear-skin),  a  piece  of  red 
cloth  which  had  once  been  a  waistcoat,  and  a  ragged 
pair  of  trowsers,  without  shoes  or  stocldngs." 

Note  2,  page  2,  col.  2. 

-a  Briton  and  a  friend. 

Don  Patricio  Gedd,  a  Scotch  physician  in  one  of 
tlie  Spanish  settlements,  hospitably  relieved  Byron 
and  his  wretched  associates,  of  which  the  commodore 
speaks  in  the  warmest  terms  of  gratitude. 

Note  3,  page  2,  col.  2. 
Or  yield  the  lyre  of  Heaven  another  string. 
The  seven  strings  of  Apollo's  harp  were  the  sym- 
bolical representation  of  the  seven  planets.   Hei-sch- 
ell,  by  discovering  an  eighth,  might  be  said  to  add 
another  string  to  the  instrument. 

Note  4,  page  2,  col.  2. 
The  Swedish  sage. 
Linnaeus. 

Note  5,  page  2,  col.  2. 
Deep  from  his  vaults,  the  Loxian  murmurs  flow. 
Loxias  is  the  name  frequently  given  to  Apollo  by 
Greek  writers ;  it  is  met  with  more  than  once  in  the 
Choephorae  of  ^Eschylus. 

Note  6,  page  3,  col.  1. 
Unlocks  a  generous  store  at  thy  command. 
Like  Horeb's  rocks  beneath  the  prophet's  hand. 

See  Exodus,  chap,  xvii,  3,  5,  G. 

Note  7,  page  4,  col.  1. 
Wild  Obi  flies. 
Among  the  negroes  of  the  West  Indies,  Obi,  or 
Obiah,  is  the  name  of  a  magical  power,  which  is  be- 
lieved by  them  to  affect  the  object  of  its  malignity 
with  dismal  calamities.  Such  a  belief  must  undoubt- 
edly have  been  deduced  from  the  superstitious  my- 
thologv^  of  their  kinsmen  on  the  coast  of  Africa.  I 
have,  therefore,  personified  Obi  as  the  evil  spirit  of 
the  African,  although  the  history  of  the  African  tribes 
mentions  the  evil  spirits  of  their  religious  creed  by  a 
different  appellation. 

Note  8,  page  4,  col.  1. 

Sibir's  dreary  mines. 

Mr.  Bell,  of  Antermony,  in  his  Travels  through 
Siberia,  informs  us  that  the  name  of  the  coimtry  is 
universally  pronounced  Sibir  by  the  Russians. 

Note  9,  page  4,  col.  2. 
Presaging  wrath  to  Poland — and  to  man  ! 
The  history'  of  the  partition  of  Poland,  of  the  mas- 
sacre in  the  suburbs  of  Warsaw,  and  on  the  bridge 
of  Prague,  the  triumphant  entry  of  Suwarrow  into 
the  Polish  capital,  and  the  insult  offered  to  human 


Heaven,  for  victories  obtained  over  men  figliiing  in 
the  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  by  murderers  and  oppress- 
ors, arc  events  generally  known. 

Note  10,  page  5,  col.  2. 

The  shrill  horn  blew. 
The  negroes  in  the  West  Indies  are  summoned  to 
thei#  morning  work  by  a  shell  or  horn. 

Note  11,  page  6,  col.  1. 
How  long  was  Timour's  iron  sceptre  sway'dl 

To  elucidate  this  passage,  I  shall  subjoin  a  quota 
tion  from  the  preface  to  Letters  from  a  Hindoo  Rajah, 
a  work  of  elegance  and  celebrity. 

"  The  impostor  of  Mecca  had  established,  as  one 
i  of  the  principles  of  his  doctrine,  the  merit  of  extend- 
I  ing  it,  either  by  persuasion  or  the  sword,  to  all  parts 
of  the  earth.  How  steadily  this  injunction  was  ad- 
hered to  by  his  followers,  and  with  what  success  it 
was  pursued,  is  well  known  to  all  who  are  in  the 
least  conversant  in  histor}^ 

"  The  same  overwhelming  torrent  which  had  in- 
undated the  greater  part  of  Africa,  burst  its  way 
into  the  very  heart  of  Europe,  and  covering  many 
kingdoms  of  Asia  with  unbounded  desolation,  direct- 
ed its  baneful  course  to  the  flourishing  provinces 
of  Hindostan.  Here  these  fierce  and  hardy  adven- 
turers, whosa  only  improvement  had  been  in  the 
science  of  destruction,  who  added  the  fury  of  fanati- 
cism to  the  ravages  of  war,  found  the  great  end  of 
their  conquest  opposed,  by  objects  which  neither  the 
ardor  of  their  persevering  zeal,  nor  savage  barbarity, 
could  surmount.  Multitudes  were  sacrificed  by  the 
cruel  hand  of  religious  persecution,  and  whole  coun- 
tries were  deluged  in  blood,  in  the  vain  hope,  that 
by  the  destruction  of  a  part,  the  remainder  might  be 
persuaded,  or  terrified,  into  the  profession  of  Mahom- 
edism.  But  all  these  sanguinary  efforts  were  ineffec- 
tual ;  and  at  length,  being  fully  convinced,  that  though 
they  might  extirpate,  they  could  never  hope  to  con- 
vert, any  number  of  the  Hindoos,  they  relinquished 
the  impracticable  idea  with  which  they  had  entered 
upon  their  career  of  conquest,  and  contented  them- 
selves with  the  acquirement  of  the  civil  dominion 
and  almost  universal  empire  of  Hindostan." — Letters 
from  a  Hindoo  Rajah,  by  Eliza  Hamiltox. 

Note  12,  page  6,  col.  1. 
And  braved  the  stormy  spirit  of  the  Cape. 
See  the  description  of  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
translated  from  Camiiens,  by  Mickle. 

Note  13,  page  6,  col.  1. 
While  famish'd  nations  died  along  the  shore. 

The  following  account  of  British  conduct,  and  its 
consequences,  in  Bengal,  will  afford  a  sufficient  idea 
of  the  fact  alluded  to  in  this  passage. 

After  describing  the  monopoly  of  salt,  betel-nut,  and 
tobacco,  the  historian  proceeds  thus  : — "  Money,  in 
this  current,  came  but  by  drops :  it  could  not  quench 
the  thirst  of  those  who  waited  in  India  to  receive  it. 
An  expedient,  such  as  it  was,  remained  to  quicken 
its  pace.  The  natives  could  live  with  little  salt,  but 
could  not  want  food.  Some  of  the  agents  saw  them- 
selves well  situated  for  collecting  the  rice  into  stores , 
they  did  so.    They  knew  the  Gentoos  would  rather 

123 


12 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


die  than  violate  the  principles  of  their  religion  by 
eating  flesh.  The  alternative  would  therefore  be  be- 
tween giving  what  they  had,  or  dying.  The  inhabit- 
ants sunk ; — they  that  cultivated  the  land,  and  saw 
the  harvest  at  the  disposal  of  others,  planted  in  doti):! 
— ^scarcity  ensued.  Then  the  monopoly  was  easier 
managed — sickness  ensued.  In  some  districts  the 
languid  living  left  the  bodies  of  their  numerous  dead 
unhuried."— Short  History  of  the  English  Transactions 
in  the  East  Indies,  page  145. 

Note  14,  page  6,  col.  1. 

Nine  times  have  Drama's  wheels  of  lightning  hurl'd 
His  awful  presence  o'er  the  alarmed  world. 
Among  the  sublime  fictions  of  the  Hindoo  mythol- 
ogy, it  is  one  article  of  belief,  that  the  Deity  Braraa 
has  descended  nine  times  upon  the  world  in  various 
forms,  and  that  he  is  yet  to  appear  a  tenth  time,  in 
the  figure  of  a  warrior  upon  a  white  horse,  to  cut  off 
all  incorrigible  offenders.  Avatar  is  the  woid  used  to 
express  his  descent. 

Note  15,  page  6,  col.  2. 
Shall  Seriswattee  wave  her  hallow'd  wand  ! 
And  Camdeo  biight,  and  Ganesa  sublime — 
Caradeo  is  the  God  of  Love,  in  the  mythology  of 
the  Hindoos.    Ganesa  and  Seriswattee  correspond  to 
the  pagan  deities,  Janus  and  Minerva. 
Note  16,  page  7,  col.  1. 
The  noon  of  manhood  to  a  myrtle  shade  ! 
Sacred  to  Venus  is  the  myrtle  Bha.de.— Dryden. 
Note  17,  page  8,  col.  1. 
Thy  woes,  Arion. 
Falconer,  m  his  poem  The  Shipwreck,  speaks  of 
himself  by  the  name  of  Arion.  See  Falconer's  Ship- 
wreck, Canto  III. 


Note  18,  p^ge  8,  col.  1. 

The  robber  Moor ! 

See  Schiller's  tragedy  of  The  Robbers,  scene  v. 

Note  19,  page  8,  col.  1. 
What  millions  died — that  Caesar  might  be  great'. 
The  carnage  occasioned  by  the  wars  of  Julius  Cae- 
sar, has  been  usually  estimated  at  two  millions  of 
men. 

Note  20,  page  8,  col.  1. 
Or  learn  the  fate  that  bleeding  thousands  bore, 
March'd  by  their  Charles  to  Dnieper's  swampy  shore. 

"  In  this  extremity"  (says  the  biographer  of  Charles 
XII.  of  Sweden,  speaking  of  his  military  exploits  be- 
fore the  battle  of  Pultowa),  "  the  memorable  wmter 
of  1709,  which  was  still  more  remarkable  in  that 
part  of  Europe  than  in  France,  destroyed  numbers  of 
his  troops  ;  for  Charles  resolved  to  brave  the  seasons 
as  he  had  done  his  enemies,  and  ventured  to  make 
long  marches  during  this  mortal  cold.  It  was  in  one 
of  these  marches  that  two  thousand  men  fell  dowTi 
dead  with  cold  before  his  eyes." 

Note  21,  page  8,  col.  1. 

as  lona's  saint. 

The  natives  of  the  island  of  lona  have  an  opinion 
that  on  certain  evenings  every  year  the  tutelary 
saint  Columba  is  seen  on  the  top  of  the  church  spires 
counting  the  surrounding  islands,  to  see  that  they 
have  not  been  sunk  by  the  power  of  witchcraft 

Note  22,  page  8,  col.  2. 
And  part,  like  Ajut, — never  to  return  ! 
See  the  history  of  Ajut  and  Anningait,  in  The 
Rambler. 


\  <KcrtvtHrc  of  Uinomim. 

IN  THREE  PARTS. 


ADVERTISExMENT. 


Most  of  the  popular  histories  of  England,  as  well 
as  of  the  American  war,  give  an  authentic  account 
of  the  desolation  of  Wyoming,  in  Pennsylvania,  which 
took  place  in  1778,  by  an  incursion  of  the  Indians. 
The  Scenery  and  Incidents  of  the  following  Poem 
are  cormected  with  that  event.  The  testimonies  of 
historians  and  travellers  concur  in  describing  the  in- 
fant colony  as  one  of  the  happiest  spots  of  human 
existence,  for  the  hospitable  and  iimocent  manners  of 
the  inhabitants,  the  beauty  of  the  coimtry,  and  the 
uxuriant  fertility  of  the  soil  and  climate.  In  an  evil 
hour,  the  junction  of  European  with  Indian  arms, 
converted  this  terrestrial  paradise  into  a  frightful 
w^aste.  Mr.  Isaac  Weld  informs  us,  that  the  ruins 
of  many  of  the  villages,  perforated  with  balls,  and 
bearing  marks  of  conflagration,  were  still  preserved 
by  the  recent  inhabitants,  when  he  travelled  through 
America,  in  1796. 


PART  L 


On  Susqueharma's  side,  fair  Wyoming ! 
Although  the  v\-ild-flower  on  thy  ruin'd  wall 
And  roofless  homes,  a  sad  remembrance  bring 
Of  w  hat  thy  gentle  people  did  befall ; 
Yet  thou  wert  once  the  loveliest  land  of  all 
That  see  the  Atlantic  wave  their  mom  restore. 
Sweet  land !  may  I  thy  lost  delights  nicall. 
And  paint  thy  Gertrude  in  her  bowers  of  yore, 
Whose  beauty  was  the  love  of  Pennsylvania's  shore 

II. 

Delightful  Wyoming !  beneath  thy  skies, 
The  happy  shepherd  swains  had  nought  to  do 
But  feed  their  floclis  on  green  declivities. 
Or  skim  perchance  thy  lake  with  light  canoe. 
From  morn  till  evening's  sweeter  pastime  grew 
With  timbrel,  when  beneath  the  forests  brown, 
Thy  lovely  maidens  would  the  dance  renew, 

124 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


13 


And  aye  those  sunny  mountains  half-way  down 
Would  echo  flagelet  from  some  romantic  town. 

ni. 

Then,  where  of  Indian  hills  the  daylight  takes 
ilis  leave,  how  might  you  the  flamingo  see 
Disporting  like  a  meteor  on  the  lakes — 
And  playful  squirrel  on  his  nut-grown  tree : 
And  every  sound  of  hfe  was  full  of  glee. 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song,  (1)  or  hum  of  men ; 
While  heark'ning,  fearing  nought  their  revelry, 
The  wild  deer  arch'd  his  neck  from  glades,  and  then, 
Unhaunted,  sought  his  woods  and  wilderness  again. 

IV. 
And  scarce  had  Wyoming  of  war  or  crime 
Heard,  but  in  transatlantic  story  rung, 
For  here  the  exile  met  from  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spoke  in  friendship  ev'ry  distant  tongue : 
Men  from  the  blood  of  warring  Europe  sprung, 
Were  but  divided  by  the  running  brook; 
And  happy  where  no  Rhenish  trumpet  sung, 
On  plains  no  sieging  mine's  volcano  shook, 
The  blue-eyed  German  changed  his  sword  to  prim- 
ing-hook. 

V. 
Nor  far  some  Andalusian  saraband 
Would  sound  to  many  a  native  roundelay — 
But  who  is  he  that  yet  a  dearer  land 
liemembers,  over  hills  and  far  away? 
Green  Albin !  >  what  though  he  no  more  survey 
Thy  ships  at  anchor  on  the  quiet  shore. 
Thy  pellochs  2  rolling  from  the  mountain  bay, 
Thy  lone  sepulchral  cairn  upon  the  moor, 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan 
roar !  ^  (2) 

VI. 
Alas  !  poor  Caledonia's  mountaineer, 
That  want's  stem  edict  e'er,  and  feudal  grief. 
Had  forced  him  from  a  home  he  loved  so  dear ! 
Yet  found  he  here  a  home,  and  glad  relief, 
And  plied  the  beverage  from  his  own  fair  sheaf, 
That  fired  his  Highland  blood  with  mickle  glee : 
And  England  sent  her  men,  of  men  the  chief, 
Who  taught  those  sires  of  Empire  yet  to  be, 
To  plant  the  tree  of  life, — to  plant  fair  Freedom's 
tree ! 

VII. 
Here  was  not  mingled  in  the  city's  pomp 
Of  life's  extremes  the  grandeur  and  the  gloom  ; 
I     Judgment  awoke  not  here  her  dismal  trump, 
j     Nor  seal'd  in  blood  a  fellow-creature's  doom 
j     Nor  mourn'd  the  captive  in  a  livmg  tomb. 
i     One  venerable  man,  beloved  of  all, 
'     Sufficed,  where  innocence  was  yet  in  bloom. 
To  sway  the  strife,  that  seldom  might  befall : 
And  Albert  was  then-  judge  in  patriarchal  hall. 

VIII. 
How  reverend  was  the  look,  serenely  aged, 
He  bore,  this  gentle  Pennsylvanian  sire, 
j     Where  all  but  kindly  fervors  were  assuaged, 
I     Undimm'd  by  weakness'  shide,  or  turbid  ire! 


1  Scotland.         2  The  Gaelic  appellation  for  the  porpoise. 
3  The  great  whirlpool  of  the  Western  Hebrides. 

L2 


And  though,  amidst  tlie  calm  of  thought  entire. 
Some  high  and  haughty  features  might  betray 
A  soul  impetuous  once,  't  was  earthly  fire 
That  fled  composure's  intellectual  ray. 
As  Etna's  fires  grow  dim  before  the  rising  day 

IX. 

I  boast  no  song  in  magic  wonders  rife. 

But  yet,  oh.  Nature !  is  there  nought  to  prize 

Familiar  in  thy  bosom  scenes  of  life  ? 

And  dwells  in  daylight  truth's  salubrious  skies 

No  form  with  which  the  soul  may  sympathize? 

Young,  innocent,  on  whose  sweet  forehead  mild 

The  parted  ringlet  shone  in  simplest  guise, 

An  inmate  in  the  home  of  Albert  smiled. 

Or  blest  his  noonday  walk — she  was  his  only  child. 


The  rose  of  England  bloom'd  on  Gertnide's  cheek — • 
What  though  these  shades  had  seen  her  birth,  her  sire 
A  Briton's  independence  taught  to  seek 
Far  western  worlds ;  and  there  his  household  fire 
The  light  of  social  love  did  long  inspire 
And  many  a  halcyon  day  he  lived  to  see 
Unbroken  but  by  one  misfortune  dire. 
When  fate  had  reft  his  mutual  heart — but  she 
Was  gone — and  Gertrude  climb'd  a  widow'd  father's 
knee. 

XI. 

A  loved  bequest, — and  I  may  half  impart — 

To  them  that  feel  the  strong  paternal  tie. 

How  like  a  new  existence  to  his  heart 

That  living  flower  uprose  beneath  his  eye, 

Dear  as  she  was  from  cherub  infancy. 

From  hours  when  she  would  round  his  garden  play 

To  lime  when  as  the  ripening  years  went  by, 

Her  lovely  mind  could  culture  well  repay, 

And  more  engaging  grew,  from  pleasing  day  to  day. 

XII. 

I  may  not  paint  those  thousand  infant  charms  ; 

(Unconscious  fascination,  undesign'd !) 

The  orison  repeated  in  his  arms. 

For  God  to  bless  her  sire  and  all  mankind ; 

The  book,  the  bosom  on  his  knee  rechned. 

Or  how  sweet  fairy-lore  he  heard  her  con, 

(The  playmate  ere  the  teacher  of  her  mind)  : 

All  uncompanion'd  else  her  heart  had  gone, 

Till  now,  in  Gertrude's  eyes,  their  ninth  blue  summef 

shone. 

XIII. 
And  summer  was  the  tide,  and  sweet  the  hour. 
When  sire  and  daughter  saw^  with  fleet  descent. 
An  Indian  from  his  bark  approach  their  bower. 
Of  buskin'd  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament,  (3) 
The  red  wild  feathers  on  his  brow  were  blent. 
And  bracelets  bound  the  arm  that  help'd  to  light 
A  boy,  who  seem'd,  as  he  beside  him  went. 
Of  Christian  vesture,  and  complex-ion  bright, 
Led  by  his  dusky  guide,  like  morning  brouglat  by 

night. 

XIV. 

Yet  pensive  seem'd  the  boy  for  one  so  young — 
The  dimple  from  his  polish'd  cheek  had  fled ; 
When,  leaning  on  his  forest-bow  unstrung, 
Th'  Oneyda  warrior  to  the  planter  said, 

125 


14 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  laid  his  hand  upon  the  striphng's  head, 
•'  Peace  be  to  thee !  my  words  this  belt  approve ;  (4) 
The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led  :  (5) 
This  little  nursling,  take  him  to  thy  love, 
And  shield  the  bird  unfledged,  since  gone  the  parent 
dove. 

"  Christian !  I  am  the  foeman  of  thy  foe  ; 

Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace :  (6) 

Upon  the  Michigan,  three  moons  ago. 

We  launch'd  our  pirogues  for  the  bison  chase 

And  with  the  Hurons  planted  for  a  space. 

With  true  and  faithful  hands,  the  olive-stalk ; 

But  snakes  are  in  the  bosoms  of  their  race. 

And  though  they  held  with  us  a  friendly  talk, 

The  hollow  peace-tree  fell  beneath  their  tomahawk! 

XVI. 

"  It  was  encamping  on  the  lake's  far  port, 

A  cry  of  Areouski '  broke  our  sleep, 

Where  storm'd  an  ambush'd  foe  thy  nation's  fort, 

And  rapid,  rapid  whoops  came  o'er  the  deep! 

But  long  thy  country's  war-sign  on  the  steep 

Appear'd  through  ghastly  intervals  of  light, 

And  deathfully  their  thunders  seem'd  to  sweep. 

Till  utter  darkness  swallow'd  up  the  sight. 

As  if  a  shower  of  blood  had  quench'd  the  fiery  fight! 

XVII. 
"  It  slept — it  rose  again — on  high  their  tower 
Sprung  upwards  like  a  torch  to  light  the  skies, 
Then  down  again  it  rain'd  an  ember  shower, 
And  louder  lamentations  heard  we  rise  : 
As  when  the  evil  Manitou,-  (7)  that  dries 
Th'  Ohio  woods,  consumes  them  in  his  ire, 
In  vain  the  desolated  panther  flics. 
And  howls  amidst  his  wilderness  of  fire : 
Alas!  too  late,  we  reach'd  and  smote  those  Huroas  dire! 

xvin. 

"  But  as  the  fox  beneath  the  nobler  hound, 

So  died  their  warriors  by  our  battle-brand ; 

And  from  the  tree  we,  w  ith  her  child,  unbound 

A  lonely  mother  of  the  Christian  land — 

Her  lord — the  captain  of  the  British  band — 

Amidst  the  slaughter  of  his  soldiers  lay. 

Scarce  knew  the  widow  our  dehv'ring  hand  ; 

Upon  her  child  she  sobb'd,  and  swooqid  away 

Or  shriek'd  unto  the  God  to  whom  the  Christians  pray. 

XIX. 

"Our  virgins  fed  her  with  their  kindly  bowls 
Of  fever-balm  and  sweet  sagamite  :  (8) 
But  she  was  journeying  to  the  land  of  souls. 
And  lifted  up  her  dying  head  to  pray 
That  we  should  bid  an  ancient  friend  convey 
Her  orphan  to  his  home  on  England's  shore ; 
And  take,  she  said,  this  token  far  away. 
To  one  that  will  remember  us  of  yore. 
When  he  beholds  the  ring  that  Waldegrave's  Julia 
wore. 

XX. 
"  And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,^  (9)  have  rush'd 
With  this  lorn  dove." — A  sage's  self-command 
Had  quell'd  the  tears  from  Albert's  heart  that  gush'd ; 
But  yet  his  cheek — his  agitated  hand — 

1  The  Indian  God  of  War.         2  Manitou,  Spirit  or  Deity, 
3  The  Indians  are  distinguished  both  personally  and  by  tribes 


That  shower'd  upon  the  stranger  of  the  land 
Xo  (^^mon  boon,  in  grief  but  ill-beguiled 
A  soul  that  was  not  wont  to  be  unmann'd : 
"And  stay,"  he  cried,  "dear  pilgrim  of  the  wild! 
Preserver  of  my  old,  my  boon  companion's  cliild'-   : 

XXI. 

"  Child  of  a  race  whose  name  my  bosom  warms, 
On  earth's  remotest  bounds  how  welcome  here ! 
Whose  mother  oft,  a  child,  has  fiil'd  these  arms. 
Young  as  thyself,  and  innocently  dear. 
Whose  grandsire  was  my  early  life's  compeer. 
Ah,  happiest  home  of  England's  happy  clime! 
How  beautiful  ev'n  now  thy  scenes  appear, 
As  in  the  noon  and  sunshine  of  my  prime ! 
How  gone  like  yesterday  these  thrice  ten  years  of  time 

XXII. 

"  And,  Julia !  when  thou  wert  like  Gertrude  now, 

Can  I  forget  thee,  fav'rite  child  of  yore? 

Or  thought  I,  in  thy  father's  house,  when  thou 

Wert  lightest-hearted  on  his  festive  floor. 

And  first  of  all  his  hospitable  door 

To  meet  and  kiss  me  at  my  journey's  end  ? 

But  where  was  I  when  Waldcgrave  was  no  more? 

And  thou  didst  pale  thy  gentle  head  extend. 

In  woes,  that  ev'n  the  tribe  of  deserts  was  thy  friend !" 

xxm. 

He  said — and  strain'd  unto  his  heart  the  boy 5 
Far  differently,  the  mute  Oneyda  took  (10) 
His  calumet  of  peace,'  (11)  and  cup  of  joy; 
As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look : 
A  soul  that  pity  touch'd,  but  never  shook  ; 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  ^  to  his  bier,  (12'. 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive  (13) — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods — a  man  without  a  tear. 

XXIV. 

Yet  deem  not  goodness  on  the  savage  stock 
Of  Outalissi's  heart  disdain'd  to  grow; 
As  lives  the  oak  unwither'd  on  the  rock 
By  storms  above,  and  barrenness  below: 
He  scorn'd  his  own,  w  ho  felt  another's  woe : 
And  ere  the  wolf-skin  on  his  back  he  flung. 
Or  laced  his  moccasons,  (14)  in  act  to  go, 
A  song  of  parting  to  the  boy  he  sung, 
Who  slept  on  Albert's  couch,  nor  heard  his  friendly 
tongue. 

XXV. 

"  Sleep,  wearied  one !  and  in  the  dreaming  land 

Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet,  (15) 

O!  tell  her  spirit,  that  the  white  man's  hand 

Hath  pluck'd  the  thorns  of  sorrow  from  thy  feet ; 

While  I  in  lonely  wilderness  shall  greet 

Thy  little  foot-prints — or  by  traces  know 

The  fountain,  where  at  noon  I  thought  it  sweet 


by  the  name  of  particular  animals,  whose  qualities  they  afFei 
to  resemble,  either  for  cunning,  strength,  swiftress,  or  oth 
qualities ; — as  the  eagle,  the  serpent,  the  fox,  or  bear. 

1  Calamet  of  peace. — The  Calumet  is  the  Indian  name  fortho 
ornamented  pipe  of  friendship,  which  they  smoke  as  a  pledge 
of  amity. 

'J  Tree-rock'd  cradle. — The  Indian   mothers  suspend  their 
children  in  their  cradles  from  tlie  bougha  of  trees,  and  let  them 
I  be  rocked  by  the  wind 

126 


^ 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


15 


To  feed  thee  with  the  quarry  of  my  bow, 

And  pour'd  the  lotus-horn,'  or  slew  the  mountajjjjj^oe. 

XXVI. 

"  Adieu !  sweet  scion  of  the  rising  sun ! 
But  should  affliction's  storms  thy  blossoms  mock. 
Then  come  again — my  own  adopted  one ! 
And  I  will  graft  thee  on  a  noble  stock, 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock,  (16) 
Shall  be  the  pastime  of  thy  sylvan  wars ; 
And  I  will  teach  thee,  in  the  battle's  shock. 
To  pay  with  Huron  blood  thy  father's  scars, 
And  gratulate  his  soul  rejoicing  in  the  stars !" 

XXVII. 

So  fmish'd  Ye  the  rhyme  (howe'er  uncouth) 
That  true  to  nature's  fervid  feelings  ran  ; 
(And  song  is  but  the  eloquence  of  truth  :) 
Tiien  forth  uprose  that  lone  w-ay faring  man ;  (17) 
But  dauntless  he,  nor  chart,  nor  journey's  plan 
In  woods  required,  whose  trained  eye  was  keen 
As  eagle  of  the  wilderness,  to  scan 
Ilis  path,  by  mountain,  swamp,  or  deep  ravine. 
Or  ken  far  friendly  huts  on  good  savamias  green. 

XXVIII. 

Old  Albert  saw  him  from  the  valley's  side — 

Ilis  pirogue  launch'd — his  pilgrimage  begun — 

Far.  like  the  red-bird's  wing,  he  seem'd  to  glide ; 

Tlien  dived,  and  vanish'd  in  the  woodlands  dun. 

Olr,  to  that  spot  by  tender  memory  won, 

Would  Albert  climb  the  promontory's  height, 

If  but  a  dim  sail  glimmer'd  in  the  sun ; 

But  never  more,  to  bless  his  longing  sight. 

Was  Outalissi  hail'd,  with  bark  and  plumage  bright. 


PART  II. 


I. 


A  VALLEY  from  the  river  shore  withdrawTi 

Was  Albert's  home,  two  quiet  w'oods  between, 
!  Whose  lofty  verdure  overlook'd  his  lawn  ; 
1  And  waters  to  their  resting-place  serene 
I  Came  fresh'ning,  and  reflecting  all  the  scene 

(A  mirror  in  the  depth  of  flowery  shelves) ; 

So  sweet  a  spot  of  earth,  you  might,  (I  ween) 
i  Have  guess'd  some  congregation  of  the  elves. 

To  sport  by  summer  moons,  had  shaped  it  for  tV  em- 
selves. 

II. 

'  Yet  wanted  not  the  eye  far  scope  to  muse, 
Nor  vistas  open'd  by  the  wand'ring  stream ; 
Both  where  at  evening  Alleghany  views, 
Through  ridges  burning  in  her  western  beam. 
Lake  after  lake  interminably  gleam : 
And,  past  those  settlers'  haunts,  the  eye  might  roam 
Where  earth's  unliving  silence  all  would  seem ; 
Save  where  on  rocks  the  beaver  built  his  dome, 
Or  buffalo  remote  low'd  far  from  human  home. 


1  From  a  flowershaped  like  a  horn,  which  Chateaubriand  pre- 
sumes to  be  of  the  lotus  kind,  the  Indians  in  their  travels  through 
the  desert  often  find  a  draught  of  dew  purer  than  any  other 
water.  * 


III. 
But  silent  not  that  adverse  eastern  path. 
Which  saw  Aurora's  hills  th'  horizon  crowTi  ; 
There  was  the  river  heard,  in  bed  of  wrath 
(A  precipice  of  foam  from  mountains  brown), 
Like  tumtdts  heard  from  some  far-distant  tovra ; 
But  soft'ning  in  approach  he  left  his  gloom, 
And  murmur'd  pleasantly,  and  laid  him  down 
To  kiss  those  easy  curving  banks  of  bloom, 
That  lent  the  windward  air  an  exquisite  perfume. 

IV. 

It  seem'd  as  if  those  scenes  sweet  hifluence  had 

On  Gertrude's  soul,  and  kindness  like  their  own 

Inspired  those  eyes  affectionate  and  glad, 

That  seem'd  to  love  whate'er  they  look'd  upon ; 

W^hether  with  Hebe's  mirth  her  features  shone, 

Or  if  a  shade  more  pleasing  them  o'ercast, 

(As  if  for  heav'nly  musing  meant  alone  ;) 

Yet  so  becomingly  th'  expression  past, 

That  each  succeeding  look  was  lovelier  than  the  last 

V. 

Nor  guess  I,  was  that  Pennsylvanian  home. 

With  all  its  picturesque  and  balmy  grace, 

And  fields  that  were  a  luxury  to  roam, 

Lost  on  the  soul  that  look'd  from  such  a  face ! 

Enthusiast  of  the  woods !  when  years  apace 

Had  bound  thy  lovely  waist  with  woman's  zone. 

The  sun-rise  path,  at  morn,  I  see  thee  trace 

To  hills  with  high  magnolia  overgrowTi, 

And  joy  to  breathe  the  groves,  romantic  and  alone. 

VI. 

The  sun-rise  drew  her  thoughts  to  Europe  forth. 

That  thus  apostrophized  its  viewless  scene : 

"  Land  of  my  father's  love,  my  mother's  birth  I 

The  home  of  Idndred  I  have  never  seen ! 

We  know  not  other — oceans  are  between  : 

Yet  say !  far  friendly  hearts,  from  whence  we  came. 

Of  us  does  oft  remembrance  intervene ! 

My  mother  sure — my  sire  a  thought  may  claim ; — 

But  Gertrude  is  to  you  an  unregarded  name. 

VIL 

"  And  yet,  loved  England  !  when  thy  name  I  trace 
In  many  a  pilgrim's  tale  and  poet's  song, 
How  can  I  choose  but  wish  for  one  embrace 
Of  them,  the  dear  unknown,  to  whom  belong 
My  mother's  looks — perhaps  her  likeness  strong  ? 
Oh,  parent !  with  w'hat  reverential  awe. 
From  features  of  thine  ow'n  related  throng. 
An  image  of  thy  face  my  soul  coidd  draw ! 
And  see  thee  once  again  whom  I  too  shortly  saw !" 

vm. 

Yet  deem  not  Gertrude  sigh'd  for  foreign  joy  ; 
To  soothe  a  father's  couch  her  only  care. 
And  keep  his  rev'rend  head  from  all  annoy : 
For  this,  methinks,  her  homeward  steps  repair. 
Soon  as  the  morning  wreath  had  bound  her  hair 
While  yet  the  wild  deer  trod  in  spangling  dew. 
While  boatmen  caroll'd  to  the  fresh-blown  air 
And  woods  a  horizontal  shadow  threw, 
And  early  fox  appear'd  in  momentary  view. 

127 


16 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IX. 

Apart  there  was  a  deep  untrodden  grot. 
Where  oft  the  reading  hours  sweet  Gertrude  wore ; 
Tradition  had  not  named  its  lonely  spot ; 
But  here  (methinks)  might  India's  sons  explore 
Their  fathers'  dust,'  or  lift,  perchance  of  yore, 
Their  voice  to  the  great  Spirit : — rocks  sublime 
To  human  art  a  sportive  semblance  bore, 
And  yellow  lichens  color'd  all  the  clime. 
Like  moonlight  battlements,  and  tow^ers  decay'd  by 
lime. 

X. 
But  high  in  amphitheatre  above, 
His  arms  the  everlasting  aloes  threw : 
Breathed  but  an  air  of  heav'n,  and  all  the  grove 
As  if  with  instinct  H\-ing  spirit  grew. 
Rolling  its  verdant  gulf  of  every  hue ; 
And  now  suspended  was  the  pleasing  din, 
JNow  from  a  murmur  faint  it  swell'd  anew, 
Like  the  first  note  of  organ  heard  within 
Cathedral  aisles — ere  yet  its  symphony  begin. 

XI. 

It  was  in  this  lone  valley  she  would  charm 
The  ling'ringnoon,  where  flow'rs  a  couch  had  strewn ; 
Her  cheek  reclining,  and  her  snowy  arm 
On  hillock  by  the  palm-tree  half  o'ergrown : 
And  aye  that  volume  on  her  lap  is  thrown 
Which  every  heart  of  human  mould  endears ; 
With  Shakspeare's  self  she  speaks  and  smiles  alone, 
And  no  intruding  visitation  fears. 
To  shame  the  unconscious  laugh,  or  stop  her  sweet- 
est tears. 

XII. 
And  nought  within  the  grove  was  heard  or  seen 
But  stock-doves  plaining  through  its  gloom  profound, 
Or  winglet  of  the  fairy  humming-bird, 
Like  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round ; 
When,  lo !  there  enter'd  to  its  inmost  ground 
A  youth,  the  stranger  of  a  distant  land ; 
He  was,  to  weet,  for  eastern  mountains  bound ; 
But  late  th'  equator  suns  his  cheek  had  tann'd. 
And  California's  gales  his  roving  bosom  fann'd. 

xm. 

A.  steed,  whose  rein  hung  loosely  o'er  his  arm, 
He  led  dismounted ;  ere  his  leisure  pace, 
Amid  the  brown  leaves,  could  her  ear  alarm, 
Close  he  had  come,  and  worshipp'd  for  a  space 
Those  downcast  features : — she  her  lovely  face 
Uplift  on  one,  whose  lineaments  and  frame 
Were  youth  and  manhood's  intermixigled  grace : 
Iberian  seem'd  his  boot — his  robe  the  same, 
And  well  the  Spanish  plume  his  lofty  looks  became. 

XIV. 

For  Albert's  home  he  sought — her  finger  fair 
Has  pointed  where  the  father's  mansion  stood. 
Returning  from  the  copse  he  soon  was  there ; 
And  soon  has  Gertrude  hied  from  dark  greenwood ; 
Nor  joyless,  by  the  converse,  understood 
Between  the  man  of  age  and  pilgrim  young, 
That  gay  congeniality  of  mood, 


1  It  is  a  custom  of  the  Indian  tribes  to  visit  the  tombs  of  their 
ancestors  in  the  cultivated  parts  of  America,  who  have  been 
buried  for  upwards  of  a  century. 


And  early  liking  from  acquaintance  sprung ; 
Full  fluently  conversed   their  guest  in  England' 
tongue. 

XV. 
And  well  could  he  his  pilgrimage  of  taste 
Unfold, — and  mucb  they  loved  his  fervid  strain, 
While  he  each  fair  variety  retraced 
Of  climes,  and  manners,  o'er  the  eastern  main. 
Now  happy  Switzer's  hills — roma-itic  Spain, — 
Gay  lilied  fields  of  France, — or,  more  refuied. 
The  soft  Ausonia's  monumental  reign ; 
Nor  less  each  rural  image  he  design'd 
Than  all  the  city's  pomp  and  home  of  human-kind, 

XVI. 

Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws  ; 

Of  Nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak, — 

The  loneliness  of  earth  that  overawes, — 

Where,  resting  by  some  tomb  of  old  Cacique, 

The  lama-driver  on  Peruvia's  peak. 

Nor  living  voice  nor  motion  marks  around  ; 

But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek. 

Or  wild-cane  arch  high  flung  o'er  gulf  profound,' 

That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado  soimd 

XVII. 

Pleased  with  his  guest,  the  good  man  still  would  ply 
Each  earnest  question,  and  his  converse  court ; 
But  Gertrude,  as  she  eyed  him,  knew  not  why 
A  strange  and  troubling  wonder  stopt  her  short. 
"  In  England  thou  hast  been, — and,  by  report. 
An  orphan's  name  (quoth  Albert)  mayst  have  known. 
Sad  tale  I — when  latest  fell  our  frontier  fort, — 
One  innocent — one  soldier's  child — alone 
Was  spared,  and  brought  to  me,  who  loved  him  as 
my  own. — 

XVIII. 
"  Young  Henry  Waldegrave  !  three  delightful  years 
These  very  w  alls  his  infant  sports  did  see ; 
But  most  I  loved  him  when  his  parting  tears 
Alternately  bedew'd  my  child  and  me  : 
His  sorest  parting,  Gertrude,  was  from  thee ; 
Nor  half  its  grief  his  little  heart  could  hold : 
By  kindred  he  was  sent  for  o'er  the  sea. 
They  tore  him  from  us  when  but  twelve  years  old, 
And  scarcely  for  his  loss  have  I  been  yet  consoled !" 

XIX. 
His  face  the  wanderer  hid — but  could  not  hide 
A  tear,  a  smile,  upon  his  cheek  that  dwell ; — 
"And  speak!  mysterious  stranger!"  (Gertrude  cried) 
"  It  is  I — it  is ! — I  knew — I  knew  him  well ! 
'T  is  Waldegrave's  self,  of  Waldegrave  come  to  tell!" 
A  burst  of  joy  the  father's  lips  declare  ; 
But  Gertrude  speechless  on  his  bosom  fell : 
At  once  his  open  arras  embraced  the  pair, 
W^as  never  groupe  more  blest,  in  this  wide  world  of 
care. 

XX. 
"  And  will  ye  pardon  then  (replied  the  youth) 
Your  Waldegrave's  feigned  name,  and  false  attire  ? 
I  durst  not  in  the  neighborhood,  in  truth, 
The  very  fortunes  of  your  house  inquire  ; 


1  The  bridges  over  narrow  streams  in  many  parts  of  Spanish 
America  are  said  to  be  built  of  cane,  which,  however  strong  to 
support  the  passenger,  are  yet  waved  in  the  agitation  of  the 
storm,  and  frequently  add  to  the  effect  of  a  mountainous  and 
picturesque  scenery. 

123 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


17 


Lest  one  that  knew  me  might  some  tidings  dire 

Impart,  and  I  my  weakness  all  betray ; 

lor  had  I  lost  my  Gertrude  and  my  sire, 

I  meant  but  o'er  your  tombs  to  weep  a  day — 

Unknown  I  meant  to  weep,  unknown  to  pass  away. 

XXI. 

"  But  here  ye  live, — ye  bloom, — in  each  dear  face 
The  changing  hand  of  time  I  may  not  blame  ; 
For  there,  it  hath  but  shed  more  reverend  grace, 
And  here  of  beauty  perfected  the  frame  ; 
And  well  I  know  your  hearts  are  still  the  same — 
They  could  not  change — ye  look  the  very  way, 
As  when  an  orphan  first  to  you  I  came. 
And  have  ye  heard  of  ray  poor  guide,  I  pray  ? 
iSay,  wherefore  weep  ye,  friends,  on  such  a  joyous 
day  ?" 

XXII. 

'•  And  art  thou  here  ?  or  is  it  but  a  dream  ? 
And  wilt  thou,  Waldegrave,  wilt  thou  leave  us  more?" 
"  No,  never !  thou  that  yet  dost  lovelier  seem 
Than  aught  on  earth — than  ev'n  thyself  of  yore — 
I  will  not  part  thee  from  thy  father's  shore ; 
But  we  shall  cherish  him  with  mutual  arms, 
And  hand  in  hand  again  the  path  explore, 
Which  every  ray  of  young  remembrance  warms, 
While  thou  shalt  be  my  own,  with  all  thy  truth  and 
charms." 

XXIII. 

At  mom,  as  if  beneath  a  galaxy 
Of  over-arching  groves  in  blossoms  white. 
Where  all  was  od'rous  scent  and  harmony. 
And  gladness  to  the  heart,  nerve,  ear,  and  sight : 
There  if  oh,  gentle  Love  !  I  read  aright 
The  utterance  that  seal'd  thy  sacred  bond, 
'T  was  list'ning  to  these  accents  of  dehght. 
She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes,  beyond 
Expression's  pow'r  to  paint,  all  languishingly  fond. 

XXIV. 

"  Flow'r  of  my  life,  so  lovely,  and  so  lone ! 
Whom  I  would  rather  in  this  desert  meet. 
Scorning,  and  scorn'd  by  fortune's  pow'r,  than  own 
Her  pomp  and  splendors  lavish'd  at  my  feet! 
Tirni  not  from  me  thy  breath,  more  exquisite 
Than  odors  cast  on  Heaven's  own  shrine — to  please — 
Give  me  thy  love,  than  luxury  more  sweet. 
And  more  than  all  the  wealth  that  loads  the  breeze, 
When  Cororaandel's  ships  return  from  Indian  seas." 

XXV. 

Then  would  that  home  admit  them — ^happier  far 
That  grandeur's  most  magnificent  saloon, 
While,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star 
Flush'd  in  the  dark'ning  firmament  of  June  ; 
And  silence  brought  the  soul-felt  hour,  foil  soon, 
Ineffable  which  I  may  not  portray  ; 
For  never  did  the  hymenean  moon 
A  i^aradise  of  hearts  more  sacred  sway. 
In  all  that  slept  beneath  her  soft  voluptuous  ray. 
17 


PART  III. 


I. 

O  Love  I  in  such  a  wilderness  as  this, 

Where  transport  and  security  entwine. 

Here  is  the  empire  of  thy  perfect  bliss, 

And  here  thou  art  a  god  indeed  divine. 

Here  shall  no  forms  abridge,  no  hours  confine 

The  views,  the  walks,  that  boundless  joy  inspire ! 

Roll  on,  ye  days  of  raptured  influence,  shine  I 

Nor,  bhnd  with  ecstacy's  celestial  fire, 

Shall  love  behold  the  spark  of  earth-born  time  expire, 

II. 

Three  little  moons,  how  short !  amid  the  grove 

And  pastoral  savannas  they  consume  ! 

While  she,  beside  her  buskin'd  youth  to  rove, 

Delights,  in  fancifully-wild  costume, 

Her  lovely  brow  to  shade  with  Indian  plume  ; 

And  forth  in  hunter-seeming  vest  they  fare ; 

But  not  to  chase  the  deer  in  forest  gloom  ; 

'T  is  but  the  breath  of  heav'n — the  blessed  air — 

And  interchange  of  hearts  unknown,  unseen  to  share. 

III. 

WTiat  though  the  sportive  dog  oft  round  them  note, 
Or  fawn,  or  wild  bird  bursting  on  the  wing  ; 
Yet  who,  in  love's  own  presence,  would  devote 
To  death  those  gentle  throats  that  wake  the  spring. 
Or  writhing  from  the  brook  its  victim  bring  ? 
No  I — nor  let  fear  one  little  warbler  rouse  ; 
But,  fed  by  Gertrude's  hand,  still  let  them  sing. 
Acquaintance  of  her  path,  amidst  the  boughs. 
That  shade  ev'n  now  her  love,  and  witness'd  first 
her  vows. 

IV. 

Now  labyrinths,  which  but  themselves  can  pierce, 
Methinks,  conduct  them  to  some  pleasant  ground, 
Where  welcome  hills  shut  out  the  universe. 
And  pines  their  lawny  walk  encompass  round ; 
There,  if  a  pause  delicious  converse  found, 
'T  was  but  when  o'er  each  heart  th'  idea  stole, 
(Perchance  awhile  in  joy's  oblivion  drown'd) 
That,  come  what  may,  while  life's  glad  pulses  roll, 
Indissolubly  thus  should  soul  be  knit  to  soul. 


And  in  the  visions  of  romantic  youth, 
What  years  of  endless  bliss  are  yet  to  flow ! 
But,  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  ? 
The  torrent's  smoothness,  ere  it  dash  below ! 
And  must  I  change  my  song?  and  must  I  show, 
Sweet  Wyoming !  the  day  when  thou  wert  doom'd, 
Guiltless,  to  mourn  thy  loveliest  bow'rs  laid  low ! 
WTien  where  of  yesterday  a  garden  bloom'd, 
Death  overspread   his  pall,    and    black'ning   ashes 
gloom'd. 

VI. 

Sad  was  the  year,  by  proud  oppression  driven, 
WTien  Transatlantic  Liberty  arose, 
Not  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  smile  of  Heaven, 
But  wTapt  in  whirlwinds,  and  begirt  with  woes, 

J  29 


18 


CA^IPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS- 


Amidst  the  strife  of  fratricidal  foes ; 
Iler  birth-star  was  the  li;zht  of  burning  plains  ; ' 
Her  baptism  is  the  weight  of  blood  that  flows 
From  kindred  hearts — the  blood  of  Briiish  veins — 
And  famine  tracks  her  steps,  and  pestilential  pains. 

vn. 

Yet,  ere  the  storm  of  death  had  raged  remote, 
Or  siege  unseen  in  heav'n  reflects  its  beams, 
Who  now  each  dreadful  circumstance  shall  note. 
That   fills    pale    Gertrude's   thoughts,   and   nightly 

dreams  ? 
Dismal  to  her  the  forge  of  battle  gleams 
Portentous  light  ?  and  music's  voice  is  dumb ; 
Save  where  the  fife  its  shrill  reveille  screams, 
Or  midnight  streets  re-echo  to  the  drum, 
That  speaks  of  madd'ning  strife,  and  blood-stain'd 

fields  lO  come. 

It  was  in  truth  a  momentary  pang ; 

Yet  liow  comprising  myriad  shapes  of  woe ! 

First  when  in  Gertrude's  ear  the  summons  rang, 

A  husband  to  the  battle  doom'd  to  go  I 

"  Nay,  meet  not  thou  (she  cries)  thy  kindred  foe ! 

But  peaceful  let  us  seek  fair  England's  strand !" 

"Ah,  Gertrude  I  thy  beloved  heart,  I  know. 

Would  feel,  like  mine,  the  stigmatizing  brand! 

Could  I  forsake  the  cause  of  Freedom's  holy  band. 

IX. 

"  But  shame — but  flight — a  recreant's  name  to  prove, 

To  hide  in  exile  ignominious  fears  ; 

Say,  ev'n  if  this  I  brook'd,  the  pubUc  love 

Thy  father's  bosom  to  his  home  endears : 

And  how  could  I  his  few  remaining  years. 

My  Gertrude,  sever  from  so  dear  a  child  ?" 

So,  day  by  day,  her  boding  heart  he  cheers ; 

At  last  that  heart  to  hope  is  half  beguiled. 

And,  pale  through  tears  suppressed,  the  mournful 

beaut}'  smiled. 

X. 
Night  came, — and  in  their  lighted  tow'r,  full  late. 
The  joy  of  converse  had  endured — when,  hark! 
Abrupt  and  loud  a  summons  shook  their  gate ; 
And,  heedless  of  the  dog's  obstrep'rous  bark, 
A  form  has  rxish'd  amidst  them  from  the  dark. 
And  spread  his  arms, — and  fell  upon  the  floor : 
Of  ased  strength  his  limbs  retain'd  the  mark  ; 
But  desolate  he  look'd,  and  famish'd,  poor. 
As  ever  shipwreck'd  wretch  lone  left  on  desert  shore. 

XL 
Uprisen,  each  wond'ring  brow  is  knit  and  arch'd : 
A  spirit  from  the  dead  they  deem  him  first: 
To  speak  he  tries ;  but  quiv'ring,  pale,  and  parch'd, 
From  lips,  as  by  some  pow'rless  dream  accursed, 
Emotions  unintelligible  burst : 
And  long  his  filmed  eye  is  red  and  dim  ; 
At  length  the  pit\--proffer'd  cup  his  thirst 
Had  half  assuaged,  and  nerved  his  shuddering  limb, 
"When  Albert's  hand  he  grasp'd  ; — but  Albert  knew 

not  him — 

xn. 

"  And  hast  thou  then  forgot,"  (he  cried  forlorn. 
And  eyed  the  group  with  half  indignant  air,) 
"  Oh !  hast  thou.  Christian  chief,  forgot  the  mom 
WTien  I  with  thee  the  cup  of  peace  did  share  ? 

I  Alluding  to  the  miseries  that  attended  the  American  civil  war. 


Then  stately  was  this  head,  and  dark  this  hair. 
That  now  is  white  as  Appalachia's  snow ; 
But,  if  the  weight  of  fifteen  years'  despair, 
And  age,  hath  bow'd  me,  and  the  torturing  foe, 
Lring  me  my  boy — and  he  will  his  deliverer  know!"-' 

xin. 

It  was  not  long,  with  eyes  and  heart  of  flame. 

Ere  Henry  to  his  loved  Oneyda  flew  : 

"  Bless  thee,  my  guide!" — but,  bacl  ward,  as  he  came. 

The  chief  his  old  bewilder'd  head  withdrew. 

And   grasp'd  his  arm,  and  look'd   and  look'd  him 

through. 
'Twas  strange — nor  could  the  group  a  smile  control — 
The  long,  the  doubtful  scrutiny  to  \'iew : — 
At  last  delight  o'er  all  his  features  stole, 
"  It  is — my  owTi,"  he  cried,  and  clasp' d  him  to  his 

soul. 

XIV. 

"  Yes  !  thou  recall'st  my  pride  of  years,  for  then 

The  bowstring  of  my  spirit  was  not  slack. 

When,  spite  of  woods,  and  floods,  and  ambush'd  men, 

I  bore  thee  like  the  quiver  on  my  back, 

Fleet  as  the  w  hirlwind  hurries  on  the  rack ; 

Xor  foeman  then,  nor  cougar's  crouch  I  fear'd,' 

For  I  was  strong  as  mountain  cataract : 

And  dost  thou  not  remember  how  we  cheer'd, 

Upon  the  last  hill-top,  when  white  men's  huts  appear'd? 

XV. 

"  Then  welcome  be  my  death-song,  and  my  death ! 

Since  I  have  seen  thee,  and  again  embraced." 

And  longer  had  he  spent  his  toil-worn  breath ; 

But  with  afl!ectionate  and  eager  haste. 

Was  every  arm  outstretch'd  around  their  guest, 

To  welcome  and  to  bless  his  aged  head. 

Soon  was  the  hospitable  banquet  placed  ; 

And  Gertrude's  lovely  hands  a  balsam  shed 

On  wounds  with  fever'd  joy  that  more  profusely  bled 

XVI. 
"But  this  is  not  a  time," — he  started  up. 
And  smote  his  breast  with  woe-denouncing  hand — 
"  This  is  no  time  to  fill  the  joyous  cup. 
The  Mammoth  comes,  (18) — the  foe,  the  Monster 

Brandt,^ 
With  all  his  howling  desolating  band ; — 
These  eyes  have  seen  their  blade,  and  burning  pine 
Awake  at  once,  and  silence  half  your  land. 
Red  is  the  cup  they  drinlv,  but  not  with  wine : 
Awake,  and  watch  to-night,  or  see  no  morning  shine! 

X\TT. 

"  Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 
'Gainst  Brandt  himself  I  went  to  battle  forth :  (19) 
Accursed  Brandt !  he  left  of  all  my  tribe 
Nor  man.  nor  child,  nor  thing  of  hving  birth  : 
No!  not  the  dog,  that  watch'd  my  household  hear:' 
Escaped  that  night  of  blood,  upon  our  plains ! 
Ail  perish'd  ! — I  alone  am  left  on  earth ! 
To  whom  nor  relative  nor  blood  remains. 
No !  not  a  kindred  drop  that  runs  in  human  vein?  ! 


1  Cougar,  the  American  tiger. 

2  Brandt  was  the  leader  of  those  Jlohawks,  and  nthpr  ? 
a?es,  who  laid  waste  this  part  of  Pennsylvania. — Vide  r 
16,  at  the  end  of  this  poem. 

130 


GERTRUDE  OF  W^'OMIXG. 


19 


XVIII. 
"But  go! — and  rouse  your  warriors; — for,  if  right 
These  old  bewilder'd  eyes  could  guess,  by  signs 
Of  striped  and  starred  banners,  on  yon  height 
Of  eastern  cedars,  o'er  the  creek  of  pines — 
Some  fort  embattled  by  your  country  shines : 
Deep  roars  th'  innavigable  gulf  below 
Its  squared  rock,  and  paUsaded  lines. 
Go  !  seek  the  light  its  warlike  beacons  show; 
Wliilst  I  in  ambush  wait,  for  vengeance,  and  the  foe!" 

XIX. 

Scarce  had  he  utter'd— when heav'n's  verge  extreme 

Reverberates  the  bomb's  descending  star, — 

And  sounds  that  mingled  laugh, — and  shout, — and 

scream, — 
To  freeze  the  blood,  in  one  discordant  jar, 
Rung  to  the  peaUng  thunderlxjlts  of  war. 
Whoop  after  whoop  with  rack  the  ear  assail'd ! 
As  if  unearthly  fiends  had  burst  their  bar ; 
While  rapidly  the  marlvsman's  shot  prevail'd: — 
And  aye,  as  if  for  death,  some  lonely  trumpet  wail'd. 

XX. 

Then  look'd  they  to  the  hills,  where  fire  o'erhung 

The  bandit  groups,  in  one  Vesuvian  glare; 

Or  swept,  far  seen,  the  tow'r,  whose  clock  unrung. 

Told  legible  that  midnight  of  despair. 

She  faints, — she  falters  not, — th'  heroic  fair, — 

As  he  the  sword  and  plume  in  haste  array'd. 

One  short  embrace — he  clasp'd  his  dearest  care — 

But  hark,  what  nearer  war-drum  shakes  the  glade  ? 

Joy,  joy!  Columbia's  friends  are  trampling  through 

the  shade  ! 

XXI. 
Then  came  of  every  race  the  mingled  swarm. 
Far  rung  the  groves,  and  gleam'd  the  midnight  grass, 
With  flambeau,  javelin,  and  naked  arm  ; 
As  warriors  wheel'd  their  culverins  of  brass, 
Sprung  from  the  woods,  a  bold  athletic  mass, 
Whom  virtue  fires,  and  liberty  combines  : 
And  first  the  wild  Moravian  yagers  pass. 
His  plumed  host  the  dark  Iberian  joins — 
And   Scotia's  sword  beneath  the  Highland  thistle 

shines. 

XXII. 
And  in,  the  buskin'd  hunters  of  the  deer. 
To  Albert's  home,  with  shout  and  cymbal  throng : — 
Roused  by  their  warlike  pomp,  and  mirth,  and  cheer. 
Old  Outalissi  woke  his  battle-song, 
And,  beating  with  his  war-club  cadence  strong, 
Tells  how  his  deep-stung  indignation  smarts, 
Of  them  that  wrapt  his  house  in  flames,  ere  long. 
To  whet  a  dagger  on  their  stony  hearts. 
And  smile  avenged  ere  yet  his  eagle  spirit  parts. 

XXIIT. 
Calm,  opposite  the  Christian  father  rose, 
Pale  on  his  venerable  brow  its  rays 
Of  martyr  light  the  conflagration  throws ; 
One  hand  upon  his  lovely  child  he  lays, 
And  one  th'  uncover'd  crowd  to  silence  sways; 
While,  though  the  battle  flash  is  faster  driv'n, — 
Unawed,  with  eve  unstartled  by  the  blaze. 
He  for  his  bleeding  country'  prays  to  Heav'n, — 
Prays  that  the  men  of  blood  themselves  may  be  for- 
giv'n. 


XXIV. 

Short  time  is  now  for  gratulating  speech : 

And  yet,  beloved  Gertrude,  ere  began 

Thy  country's  flight,  yon  distant  tow'rs  to  reach, 

Look'd  not  on  thee  the  rudest  partisan 

With  brow  relax'd  to  love  ?    And  murmurs  ran. 

As  round  and  round  their  willing  ranks  they  drew, 

From  beauty's  sight  to  shield  the  hostile  van. 

Grateful,  on  them  a  placid  look  she  threw, 

Nor  wept,  but  as  she  bade  her  mother's  grave  adieu '. 

.-•-■'■'  XXV. 

Past  was  the  flight,  and  welcome  seem'd  the  tower^ 
That  like  a  giant  standard-bearer  frown'd 
Defiance  on  the  roving  Indian  power. 
Beneath,  each  bold  and  promo}itory  mound 
With  embrasure  emboss 'd,  and  armor  crowTi'd, 
And  arrowy  frieze,  and  wedged  ravelin. 
Wove  like  a  diadem  its  traceiy  round- 
The  lofty  summit  of  that  mountain  green  : 
Here  stood  secure  the  group,  and  eyed  a  distant  scene. 

XXVI. 

A  scene  of  death  I  where  fires  beneath  the  sun, 
And  blended  arms,  and  white  pavilions  glow; 
And  for  the  business  of  destruction  done 
Its  requiem  the  war-horn  seem'd  to  blow : 
There,  sad  spectatress  of  her  countrj- 's  woe  l 
The  lovely  Gertrude,  safe  from  present  harm. 
Had  laid  her  cheek,  and  clasp'd  her  hands  of  snow 
On  Waldegrave's  shoulder,  half  within  his  arm 
Enclosed,  that  felt  her  heart,  and  hush'd  its  wild  alarm ! 

XXVII. 

But  short  that  contemplation — sad  and  short 
The  pause  to  bid  each  much-loved  scene  adieu ! 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  the  fort. 
Where  friendly  swords  were  drav%n,and  banners  flew; 
Ah !  who  could  deem  that  foot  of  Indian  crew 
Was  near? — yet  therewith  lust  of  murd'rous  deed?, 
Gleam'd  like  a  basilisk,  from  woods  in  view, 
The  ambush'd  foeman's  eye — his  volley  speeds. 
And  Albert — Albert — falls!  the  dear  old  father  bleeds! 

xxvni. 

And  tranced  in  giddy  horror  Gertrude  swoon'd  ; 
Yet,  while  she  clasps  him  lifeless  to  her  zone, 
Say,  burst  they,  borrow'd  from  her  father's  wound, 
These  drops  \ — Oh,  God  !  the  life-blood  is  her  own ! 
And  fall'ring,  on  lier  Waldegrave's  bosom  thrown — 
"W^eep  not,  O  love!" — she  cries,  "to  see  me  bleed— 
Thee,  Gertrude's  sad  survivor,  thee  alone 
Heaven's  peace  commiserate :  for  scarce  I  heed 
These  wounds ; — yet  thee  to  leave  is  death,  is  death 
indeed ! 

xxix. 

"Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  fate !  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 
And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat — oh!  think. 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess, 
That  thou  hast  been  to  me  ail  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just, 
j  Oh  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
I  And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs — when  I  am  laid  in  dust ! 

131 


20 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXX. 

'Go,  Henrj',  go  not  back,  when  I  depart. 
The  scene  thy  bursting  tears  too  deep  will  move, 
Where  my  dear  father  look  thee  to  his  heart, 
And  Gertrude  thought  it  ecstacy  to  rove 
With  thee,  as  with  an  angel,  through  the  grove 
Of  pea^e,  imagining  her  lot  was  cast 
In  heav'n ;  for  ours  was  not  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  be  our  very  last  I 
No !  I  shall  love  thee  still,  when  death  itself  is  past. 

XXXI. 

"  Half  could  I  bear,  methinks,  to  leave  this  earth, — 

And  thee,  more  loved  than  aught  beneath  the  sun, 

If  I  had  lived  to  smile  but  on  the  birth 

Of  one  dear  pledge ; — but  shall  there  then  be  none, 

In  future  limes — no  gentle  little  one. 

To  clasp  thy  neck,  and  look,  resembling  me? 

Yet  seems  it,  ev'n  while  life's  last  pulses  run, 

A  sweetness  in  the  cup  of  death  to  be. 

Lord  of  my  bosom's  love !  to  die  beholding  thee ! " 

XXXII. 

Hush'd  were  his  Gertrude's  lips  I  but  still  their  bland 
And  beautifid  expression  seem'd  to  melt 
With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 
She  presses  to  the  heart  no  more  that  felt. 
Ah,  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt, 
And  features  yet  that  spoke  a  soul  more  fair. 
Mute,  gazing,  agonizing  as  he  knelt, — 
Of  them  that  stood  encircling  his  despair, 
He  heard  some  friendly  words ; — but  knew  not  what 
they  were. 

XXXIII. 

For  now,  to  mourn  their  judge  and  child,  arrives 
A  faithful  band.    With  solemn  rites  between, 
'T  was  sung,  how  they  were  lovely  in  their  lives, 
And  in  their  deaths  had  not  divided  been. 
Touch'd  by  the  music,  and  the  melting  scene. 
Was  scarce  one  tearless  eye  amidst  the  crowd  : — 
Stem  warriors,  resting  on  their  swords,  were  seen 
To  veil  their  eyes,  as  pass'd  each  much-loved  shroud — 
While  woman's  softer  soul  in  woe  dissolved  aloud. 

XXXIV. 

Then  mournfully  the  parting  bugle  bid 

Its  farewell,  o'er  the  grave  of  worth  and  truth; 

Prone  to  the  dust,  afilicled  AValdegrave  hid 

His  face  on  earth ; — him  watch'd,  in  gloomy  ruth. 

His  woodland  guide :  but  words  had  none  to  soothe 

The  grief  that  knew  not  consolation's  name : 

Casting  his  Indian  mantle  o'er  the  youth. 

He  watch'd,  beneath  its  folds,  each  burst  that  came 

Convulsive,  ague-hke,  across  his  shuddering  frame ! 

XXXV. 

"  And  I  could  vveep ;" — th'  Oneyda  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun  : — 

''  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 

The  death-song  of  my  father's  son. 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe! 

For  by  my  wrongs,  and  by  my  w'rath ! 

To-morrow  Areouski's  breath 

(Tliat  fires  yon  heav'n  with  storms  of  death) 

Sliall  light  us  to  the  foe  : 


And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy! 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy! 

XXXVI. 

"  But  thee,  my  flow'r,  whose  breath  wa.*?  giv'n 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep. 

The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heav'u 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep : — 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 

Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 

To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve. 

Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 

Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 

She  was  the  rain'oow  to  thy  sight ! 

Thy  sun — thy  heav'n — of  lost  delight ! 

XXXVII. 

"  To-morrow  let  us  do  or  die  I 

But  wlien  the  bolt  of  death  is  hurl'd, 

Ah!  whither  then  with  thee  to  fly, 

Shall  Outalissi  roam  the  world  ? 

Seek  we  thy  once-loved  home  ? 

The  hand  is  gone  that  cropt  its  flowers : 

Unheard  their  clock  repeats  its  hours ! 

Cold  is  the  hearth  wiihin  their  bow'rs ! 

And  should  we  thither  roam. 

Its  echoes,  and  its  empty  tread, 

Would  sound  like  voices  from  the  dead ! 

XXXVIII. 

"  Or  shall  we  cross  yon  moimtains  blue. 

Whose  streams  my  kindred  nation  quaflT'd  ? 

And  by  my  side,  in  battle  true, 

A  thousand  warriors  drew  the  shaft  ? 

Ah  I  there  in  desolation  cold. 

The  desert  serpent  dwells  alone. 

Where  grass  o'ergrows  each  mould'ring  bone 

And  stones  themselves  to  ruin  grown 

Like  me,  are  death-like  old. 

Then  seek  we  not  their  camp, — for  there — 

The  silence  dwells  of  my  despair ! " 

XXXIX. 

"  But  hark  the  trump ! — to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears  : 
Ev'n  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears. 
Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 
He  bids  my  soul  for  battle  thirst — 
He  bids  me  dr\'  the  last — the  first — 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 
From  Outalissi's  soul ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-son?  of  an  Indian  chief! " 


NOTES. 

Note  1,  page  13,  col.  1. 
From  merry  mock-bird's  song. 
"The  mocking-bird  is  of  the  form,  but  larger,  than 
the  thrush ;  and  the  colors  are  a  mixture  of  black 
white,  and  grey.  What  is  said  ot'the  nightingale,  by  its 
greatest  admirers,  is  what  may,  with  more  propriety, 
apply  to  this  bird,  who,  in  a  natural  state,  siniis  with 

132^ 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


21 


very  superior  taste.  Towards  evening  I  have  heard 
one  begin  softly,  reserving  its  breath  to  swell  certain 
notes,  which,  by  this  means,  had  a  most  astonishing 
effect.  A  gentleman  in  London  had  one  of  these  birds 
fjr  six  years.  During  the  space  of  a  minute  he  was 
heard  to  imitate  the  wood-lark,  chaffinch,  blackbird, 
thrush,  and  sparrow*.  In  this  country  (America)  I  have 
frequently  known  the  mocking-birds  so  engaged  in 
this  mimicry,  that  it  was  with  much  difficulty  I  could 
ever  obtain  an  opportunity  of  hearing  their  own  nat- 
ural note.  Some  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that  they  have 
neither  peculiar  notes,  nor  favorite  imitations.  This 
may  be  denied.  Their  few  natural  notes  resemble 
those  of  the  (European)  nightingale.  Their  song,  how- 
ever, has  a  greater  compass  and  volume  than  the 
nightingale,  and  they  have  the  faculty  of  varying  all 
intermediate  notes  in  a  manner  which  is  truly  de- 
lightful."— Ashe's  Travels  in  America,  vol.  ii,  p.  73. 

Note  2,  page  13,  col.  1. 
And  distant  isles  that  hear  the  loud  Corbrechtan  roar. 

The  Corybrechtan,  or  Corbrechtan,  is  a  whirlpool 
on  the  western  coast  of  Scotland,  near  the  Island  of 
Jura,  which  is  heard  at  a  prodigious  distance.  Its 
name  signifies  the  whirlpool  of  the  Prince  of  Den- 
mark ;  and  there  is  a  tradition  that  a  Danish  prince 
once  undertook,  for  a  wager,  to  cast  anchor  in  it.  He 
is  said  to  have  used  w<x)llen  instead  of  hempen  ropes, 
for  greater  strength,  but  perished  in  the  attempt.  On 
tlie  shores  of  Argyleshire,  I  have  often  listened  with 
great  delight  to  the  sound  of  this  vortex,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  many  leagues.  When  the  weather  is  calm, 
and  the  adjacent  sea  scarcely  heard  on  these  pictur- 
esque shores,  its  sound,  which  is  like  the  sound  of 
innumerable  chariots,  creates  a  magnificent  and  fine 
effect. 

Note  3,  page  13,  col.  2. 
or  buskin'd  limb,  and  swarthy  lineament. 

"  In  the  Indian  tribes  there  is  a  great  similarity  in 
their  color,  stature,  etc.  They  are  all,  except  the  Snake 
Indians,  tall  in  stature,  straight,  and  robust.  It  is  very 
seldom  they  are  deformed,  w'hich  has  given  rise  to 
the  supposition  that  they  put  to  death  their  deformed 
children.  Their  skin  is  of  a  copper  color ;  their  eyes 
large,  bright,  black,  and  sparkling,  indicative  of  a 
subtile  and  discerning  mind:  their  hair  is  of  the  same 
color,  and  prone  to  be  long,  seldom  or  never  curled. 
Their  teeth  are  large  and  white ;  I  never  observed 
any  decayed  among  them,  which  makes  their  breath 
as  sweet  as  the  air  they  inhale." — Tiavels  through 
America,  by  Capfs.  Lewis  and  Clarke,  in  1804-5-6. 

Note  4,  page  14,  col.  1. 
Peace  be  to  thee  I  my  words  this  belt  approve. 
"  The  Indians  of  North  America  accompany  every 
formal  address  to  strangers,  with  whom  they  form  or 
recognize  a  treaty  of  amity,  with  a  present  of  a  string, 
or  belt,  of  wampum.  Wampum  (says  Cadwallader 
Colden)  is  made  of  the  large  whelk  shell,  Buccinum, 
and  shaped  like  long  beads :  it  is  the  current  money 
of  the  Indians." — History  of  the  Jive  Indian  Nations, 
p.  34,  Net!}- York  edition. 

Note  5,  page  14,  col.  1. 

The  paths  of  peace  my  steps  have  hither  led. 
In  relating  an  interview  of  Mohawk  Indians  with 
the  Governor  of  New- York,  Colden  quotes  the  fol- 

M 


lowing  passage  as  a  specimen  of  their  metaphorical 
manner :  "  Where  shall  I  seek  the  chair  of  peace  ? 
Where  shall  I  find  it  but  upon  our  path?  and  whither 
doth  our  path  lead  us  but  unto  this  house  ?" 

Note  6,  page  14,  col.  1. 
Our  wampum  league  thy  brethren  did  embrace. 
"  WTien  they  sohcit  the  alliance,  offensive  or  de 
fensive,  of  a  whole  nation,  they  send  an  embassy  wilh 
a  large  belt  of  wampum  and  a  bloody  hatchet,  invit- 
ing them  to  come  and  drink  the  blood  of  their  ene- 
mies. The  wampum  made  use  of  on  these  and  other 
occasions,  before  their  acquaintance  with  the  Euro- 
peans, was  nothing  but  small  shells  which  they 
picked  up  by  the  sea-coasts,  and  on  the  banks  of  the 
lakes ;  and  now  it  is  nothing  but  a  kind  of  cyhndri- 
cal  beads,  made  of  shells,  white  and  black,  which 
are  esteemed  among  them  as  silver  and  gold  are 
among  us.  The  black  they  call  the  most  valuable,  and 
both  together  are  their  greatest  riches  and  ornaments; 
these  among  them  answering  all  the  end  that  money 
does  amongst  us.  They  have  the  art  of  stringing, 
twisting,  and  interweaving  them  into  their  belts,  col- 
lars, blankets,  and  moccasons,  etc.  in  ten  thousand 
different  sizes,  forms,  and  figures,  so  as  to  be  orna- 
ments for  every  part  of  dress,  and  expressive  to  them 
of  all  their  important  transactions.  They  dye  the  wam- 
pum of  various  colors  and  shades,  and  mix  and  dis- 
pose them  with  great  ingenuity  and  order,  and  so  as 
to  be  significant  among  themselves  of  almost  every- 
thing they  please  ;  so  that  by  these  their  words  are 
kept,  and  their  thoughts  communicated  to  one  another, 
as  ours  are  by  writing.  The  belts  that  pass  from  one 
nation  to  another  in  all  treaties,  declarations,  and  im- 
portant transactions,  are  very  carefully  preserved  in 
the  cabins  of  their  chiefs,  and  serve  not  only  as  a 
kind  of  record  or  history,  but  as  a  public  treasure." — 
Major  Rogers's  Account  of  North  America. 

Note  7,  page  14,  col.  1. 

As  when  the  evil  Manitou. 

"  It  is  certain  the  Indians  acknowledge  one  Su- 
preme Being,  or  Giver  of  Life,  who  presides  over  all 
things  ;  that  is,  the  Great  Spirit ;  and  they  look  up  to 
him  as  the  source  of  good,  from  whence  no  evil  can 
proceed.  They  also  believe  in  a  bad  Spirit,  to  whom 
they  ascribe  great  power ;  and  suppose  that  through 
his  power  all  the  evils  which  befall  mankind  are 
inflicted.  To  him,  therefore,  they  pray  in  their  dis- 
tresses, begging  that  he  would  either  avert  their  trou- 
bles, or  moderate  them  when  they  are  no  longer 
avoidable. 

"  They  hold  also  that  there  are  good  Spirits  of  a 
lower  degree,  who  have  their  particular  departments, 
in  which  they  are  constantly  contributing  to  the  hap- 
piness of  mortals.  These  they  suppose  to  preside  over 
all  the  extraordinary  productions  of  Nature,  such  as 
those  lakes,  rivers,  and  mountains  that  are  of  an  un- 
common magnitude ;  and  likewise  the  beasts,  birds, 
fishes,  and  even  vegetables  or  stones,  that  exceed 
the  rest  of  their  species  in  size  or  singularity." — 
Clarke's  Travels  among  the  Indians. 

The  Supreme  Spirit  of  good  is  called  by  the  Indians 
Kitchi  Manitou ;  and  the  Spirit  of  evil  Matchi  Manitou. 
Note  8,  page  14,  col.  1. 
Fever-balm  and  sweet  sagamit^.  Jf 

The  fever-balm  is  a  medicine  used  by  these  tribes, 

]33 


22 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


it  is  a  decoction  of  a  bush  called  the  Fever  Tree. 
Sagamite  is  a  kind  of  soup  administered  to  their  sick. 

Note  9,  page  14,  col.  1. 
And  I,  the  eagle  of  my  tribe,  have  rush'd 
With  this  lorn  dove. 
The  testimony  of  all  travellers  among  the  Ameri- 
con  Indians  who  mention  their  hieroglyphics,  author- 
izes me  in  putting  this  figurative  language  in  the 
mouth  of  Outalissi.     The  dove  is  among  them,  as 
elsewhere,  an  emblem  of  meekness ;  and  the  eagle, 
that  of  a  bold,  noble,  and  liberal  mind.     When  the 
Indian  speaks  of  a  warrior  who  soars  above  the  mul- 
titude in  person  and  endo\%Tnents,  they  say,  "  he  is 
like  the  eagle,  who  destroys  his  enemies,  and  gives 
protection  and  abundance  to  the  weak  of  his  own 
tribe." 

Note  10,  page  14,  col.  2. 
Far  differently,  the  mute  Oneyda  took,  etc. 
'•  They  are  extremely  circumspect  and  deliberate 
in  every  word  and  action ;  nothing  hurries  them  into 
any  intemperate  wrath,  but  that  inveteracy  to  their 
enemies  which  is  rooted  in  every  Indian's  breast. 
In  all  other  instances  they  are  cool  and  deliberate, 
taking  care  to  suppress  the  emotion  of  the  heart  If 
an  Indian  has  discovered  that  a  friend  of  his  is  in 
danger  of  being  cut  off  by  a  lurking  enemy,  he  does 
not  ^ell  him  of  his  danger  in  direct  terms,  as  though 
he  were  in  fear,  but  he  first  coolly  asks  him  which 
way  he  is  going  that  day,  and  having  his  answer, 
with  the  same  indifference  tells  him  that  he  has  been 
informed  that  a  noxious  beast  lies  on  the  route  he  is 
going.  This  hint  proves  sufficient,  and  his  friend 
avoids  the  danger  with  as  much  caution  as  though 
every  design  and  motion  of  his  enemy  had  been 
pointed  out  to  him. 

"  If  an  Indian  has  been  engaged  for  several  days  in 
the  chase,  and  by  accident  continued  long  without 
food,  when  he  arrives  at  the  hut  of  a  friend,  where 
he  knows  that  Ms  wants  will  be  immediately  sup- 
plied, he  takes  care  not  to  show  the  least  symptoms 
of  impatience,  or  betray  the  extreme  himger  that  he 
is  tortured  with;  but,  on  being  invited  in,  sits  con- 
tentedly down  and  smokes  his  pipe  with  as  much 
composure  as  if  his  appetite  was  cloyed,  and  he  was 
perfectly  at  ease.  He  does  the  same  if  among  stran- 
gers. This  custom  is  strictly  adhered  to  by  every 
tribe,  as  they  esteem  it  a  proof  of  fortitude,  and 
think  the  reverse  wo  til  d  entitle  them  to  the  appella- 
tion of  old  women. 

"  If  you  tell  an  Indian  that  his  children  have 
greatly  signalized  themselves  against  an  enemy,  have 
taken  many  scalps,  and  brought  home  many  prison- 
ers, he  does  not  appear  to  feel  any  strong  emotions 
of  pleasure  on  the  occasion  :  his  answer  generally  is, 
'  they  have  done  well,' — and  he  makes  but  very 
little  inquiry  about  the  matter ;  on  the  contrary,  if 
you  inform  him  that  his  children  are  slain  or  taken 
prisoners,  he  makes  no  complaints :  he  only  replies, 
'  It  is  unfortunate  :' — and  for  some  time  a-sks  no  ques- 
tions about  how  it  happened." — Lewis  and  Clarke's 
Travels. 

Note  11,  page  14,  col.  2. 
His  calumet  of  peace,  etc. 
"  Nor  is  the  calumet  of  less  importance  or  less  re- 
vered than  the  wampum  in  many  transactions  relative 
loth  to  peace  and  war.  The  bowl  of  this  pipe  is  made 
of  a  kind  of  soft  red  stone,  which  is  easily  wrought 


and  hollowed  out ;  the  stem  is  of  cane,  alder,  or  some 
kind  of  light  wood,  painted  with  different  colors,  and 
decorated  with  the  heads,  tails,  and  feathers  of  the 
most  beautiful  birds.  The  use  of  the  calumet  is  to 
smoke  either  tobacco  or  some  bark,  leaf,  or  herb,  whii  h 
they  often  use  iiLstead  of  it,  when  they  enter  into  ;  n 
alliance  or  any  serious  occasion  or  solemn  enga'.'i  - 
ments ;  this  being  among  them  the  most  sacred  (ki  ii 
that  can  be  taken,  the  violation  of  which  is  esteei:;i  ■! 
most  infamous,  and  deserving  of  severe  punishm(  it 
from  Heaven.  When  they  treat  of  war,  the  wh'  io 
pipe  and  all  its  ornaments  are  red  :  sometimes  it  is  r(  1 
only  on  one  side,  and  by  the  disposition  of  the  feat'a- 
ers,  etc.  one  acquainted  with  their  customs  will  know 
at  first  sight  what  the  nation  who  presents  it  intends 
or  desires.  Smoking  the  calumet  is  also  a  religious 
ceremony  on  some  occasions,  and  iji  all  treaties  is 
considered  as  a  witness  between  the  parties,  or  rather 
as  an  instrument  by  which  they  invoke  the  sun  and 
moon  to  witness  their  sincerity,  and  to  be  as  it  were 
a  guarantee  of  the  treaty  between  them.  This  cusuan 
of  the  Indians,  though  to  appearance  somewhat  ridicu- 
lous, is  not  without  its  reasons ;  for  as  they  find  that 
smoking  tends  to  disperse  the  vapors  of  the  brain,  to 
raise  the  spirits,  and  to  qualify  them  for  thinking  and 
judging  properly,  they  introduce  it  into  their  councils, 
where,  after  their  resolves,  the  pipe  was  considered 
as  a  seal  of  their  decrees,  and  as  a  pledge  of  their 
performance  thereof,  it  was  sent  to  those  they  were 
consulting,  in  alliance  or  treaty  with  ; — so  that  smok- 
ing among  them  at  the  same  pipe,  is  equivalent  to 
our  drinlcing  together,  and  out  of  the  same  cup." — 
Major  Rogers's  Account  of  North  America,  17G6. 

"  The  hghted  calumet  is  also  used  among  them  for 
a  purpose  still  more  interesting  than  the  expression  of 
social  friendship.  The  austere  manners  of  the  Indians 
forbid  any  appearance  of  gallantry  between  the  sexes 
in  day-time ;  but  at  night  the  young  lover  goes  a 
calumeting,  as  his  courtship  is  called.  As  these  peo- 
ple live  in  a  state  of  equalit}',  and  without  fear  of 
internal  violence  or  theft  in  their  own  tribes,  they 
leave  tlieir  doors  open  by  night  as  well  as  by  day. 
The  lover  takes  advantage  of  this  liberty,  lights  his 
calumet,  enters  the  cabin  of  his  mistress,  and  gently 
presents  it  to  her.  If  she  extmguishes  it,  she  admits 
his  addresses  ;  but  if  she  suffer  it  to  burn  unnoticed, 
he  retires  with  a  disappointed  and  throbbing  heart" 
— Ashe's  Travels. 

Note  12,  page  14,  col.  2. 
Train'd  from  his  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  his  bier. 
"  An  Indian  child,  as  soon  as  he  is  bom,  is  swathed 
with  clothes,  or  skins ;  and  being  laid  on  his  back,  is 
bound  down  on  a  piece  of  thick  board,  and  spread 
over  with  soft  moss.  The  board  is  somewhat  larger 
and  broader  than  the  child,  and  bent  pieces  of  wood, 
like  pieces  of  hoo]:s,  are  placed  over  its  flice  to  pro- 
tect it,  so  that  if  the  machine  were  si:ffered  to  fall, 
the  child  probably  would  not  be  injured.  When  thr 
women  have  any  business  to  transact  at  home,  they 
hang  the  board  on  a  tree,  if  there  be  one  at  hand, 
and  set  them  swinging  from  side  to  side,  like  a  pen- 
dulum, in  order  to  exercise  the  children." — Weld, 
vol.  ii,  p.  246. 

Note  I'i,  page  14,  col.  2. 
The  fierce  extremes  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 
Impassive. 

Of  the  active  as  well  as  passive  fortitude  of  the  Indian 

134 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYOMING. 


23 


character,  the  following  is  an  instance  related  by 
Aiiair  in  his  Travels  : — 

"  A  party  of  the  Senekah  Indians  came  to  war 
against  the  Katahba,  bitter  enemi^^s  to  each  other. — 
In  the  woods  the  former  discovered  a  sprightly  warrior 
belonging  to  the  latter,  hunting  in  their  usual  light 
dress :  on  his  perceiving  them,  he  sprung  off  for  a 
hollow  rock  four  or  five  miles  distant,  as  they  inter- 
cepted him  from  running  homeward.  He  was  so  ex- 
tremely swift  and  skilful  with  the  gun,  as  to  kill  seven 
of  them  in  the  rurming  fight  before  they  were  able  to 
surround  and  take  him.  They  carried  him  to  their 
country  in  sad  triumph  :  but  though  he  had  filled  them 
with  uncommon  grief  and  shame  for  the  loss  of  so 
many  of  their  kindred,  yet  the  love  of  martial  virtue 
induced  them  to  treat  him,  during  their  long  journey, 
with  a  great  deal  more  civility  than  if  he  had  acted 
the  part  of  a  coward.  The  women  and  children,  when 
they  met  him  at  their  several  towns,  beat  him  and 
whipped  him  in  as  severe  a  manner  as  the  occasion 
required,  according  to  their  law  of  justice,  and  at  last 
he  was  formally  condemned  to  die  b}''  the  fiery  tor- 
lure. — It  might  reasonably  be  imagined  that  what  he 
had  for  some  time  gone  through,  by  being  fed  with  a 
seant}'^  hand,  a  tedious  march,  lying  at  night  on  the 
bare  ground,  exposed  to  the  changes  of  the  weather 
wish  his  arms  and  legs  extended  in  a  pair  of  rough 
stocks,  and  suffering  such  pimishment  on  his  entering 
into  their  hostile  towns,  as  a  prelude  to  those  sharp 
torments  for  which  he  was  destined,  would  have  so 
imjtaired  his  health  and  affected  his  imagination,  as  to 
have  sent  him  to  his  long  sleep,  out  of  the  way  of  any 
more  sufferings. — Probably  tliis  would  have  been  the 
case  w'ith  the  major  part  of  white  people  under  similar 
circumstances ;  but  I  never  knew  this  with  any  of  the 
Indians  :  and  this  cool-headed,  brave  warrior,  did  not 
deviate  from  their  rough  lessons  of  martial  virtue, 
but  acted  his  part  so  well  as  to  surprise  and  sorely  vex 
his  numerous  enemies  : — for  when  ihey  were  taking 
him,  impinioned,  in  their  wild  parade,  to  the  place  of 
torture,  which  lay  near  to  a  river,  he  suddenly  dashed 
down  those  who  stood  in  his  way,  spnmg  off,  and 
plunged  into  the  water,  swimming  underneath  like  an 
otter,  only  rising  to  take  breath,  till  he  reached  the 
opposite  shore.  He  now  ascended  the  steep  bank,  but 
thong'i  he  had  good  reason  to  be  in  a  hurry,  as  many 
of  the  enemy  were  in  the  water,  and  others  running, 
very  like  blood-hounds,  in  pursuit  of  him,  and  the 
bullets  flying  around  him  from  the  time  he  took  to  the 
river,  yet  his  heart  did  not  allow  hJm  to  leave  them 
abruptly,  without  taking  leave  in  a  formal  manner, 
in  ret!irn  for  the  extraordinary  favors  they  had  done, 
and  intended  to  do,  him.  After  slapping  a  part  of  his 
body,  in  defiance  to  them  (continues  the  author),  he 
put  up  the  shrill  war-whoop,  as  his  last  salute,  till 
some  more  convenient  opportunity  offered,  and  darted 
off  in  the  manner  of  a  beast  broke  loose  from  its  tor- 
luring  enemies.  He  continued  his  speed,  so  as  to  run 
by  abo;;t  midnight  of  the  same  day  as  for  as  his  eager 
pursuers  were  two  days  in  reaching  There  he-rested 
till  he  happily  discovered  five  of  those  Indians  who 
had  pursued  him . — he  lay  a  little  way  off  their  camp, 
till  they  were  sound  asleep.  Ever\'  circumstance  of 
his  situation  occurred  to  him,  and  inspired  him  with 
heroism.  He  was  naked,  torn,  and  hungr}',  and  his 
enraged  enemies  were  come  up  with  him ; — but  there 
was  now  everything  to  relieve  his  wants,  and  a  fair 
opportunity  to  save  his  life,  and  get  great  honor  and 


sweet  revenge  by  cutting  them  off.  Resolution,  a  con- 
venient spot,  and  sudden  surprise,  would  effect  the 
main  object  of  all  his  wishes  and  hopes.  He  accord- 
ingly  creeped,  took  one  of  their  tomahawks,  and  lulled 
them  all  on  the  spot, — clothed  himself  took  a  choice 
gun,  and  as  much  ammunition  and  provisions  as  he 
could  well  carry  in  a  running  march.  He  set  off 
afresh  with  a  light  heart,  and  did  not  sleep  for  several 
successive  nights,  only  when  he  reclined,  as  usual,  a 
little  before  day,  with  his  back  to  a  tree.  As  it  were 
by  instinct,  when  he  found  he  was  free  from  the  pur- 
suing enemy,  he  made  directly  to  the  veiy  place  where 
he  had  killed  seven  of  his  enemies  and  was  taken  by 
them  for  the  fiery  torture.  He  digged  them  up,  burnt 
their  bodies  to  ashes,  and  went  home  in  safety  with 
singular  triumph.  Other  pursuing  enemies  came,  on 
the  evening  of  the  second  day,  to  the  camp  of  their 
dead  people,  when  the  sight  gave  them  a  greater  shock 
than  they  had  ever  known  before.  In  their  chilled 
war-council  they  concluded,  that  as  he  had  done  such 
surprising  things  in  his  defence  before  he  was  cap- 
tured, and  since  that  in  his  naked  condition,  and  now 
was  well  armed,  if  they  continued  the  pursuit  he 
woidd  spoil  them  all,  for  he  surely  was  an  enemy 

wizard, — and    therefore    they  relumed   home." 

Adair's  General  Observations  on  the  American  In- 
dians, p.  394. 

"  It  is  surprising,"  says  the  same  author,  "  to  see 
the  long  continued  speed  of  the  Indians.  Though 
some  of  us  have  often  run  the  swiftest  of  them  out 
of  sight  for  about  the  distance  of  twelve  miles,  yet 
afterwards,  without  any  seeming  toil,  they  would 
stretch  on,  leave  us  out  of  sight,  and  outwind  any 
horse." — Ih/d.  p.  318. 

"  If  an  Indian  were  driven  out  into  the  extensive 
woods,  Avith  only  a  knife  and  a  tomahawk,  or  a  small 
hatchet,  it  is  not  to  be  doubted  but  he  would  fatten 
even  where  a  wolf  would  starve.  He  would  soon 
collect  fire  by  rubbing  two  dry  pieces  of  wood  to- 
gether, make  a  bark  hut,  earthen  vessels,  and  a  bow 
and  arrows :  then  kill  wild  gam.e,  fish  fresh-Avater 
tortoises,  gather  a  plentiful  variety  of  vegetables,  and 
live  in  affluence." — Ibid.  p.  410. 

Note  14,  page  14,  col.  2. 
INIoccasons  is  a  sort  of  Indian  buskins. 

Note  15,  page  14,  col.  2. 
Sleep,  wearied  one !  and  in  the  dreaming  land 
Shouldst  thou  to-morrow  with  thy  mother  meet. 
"There  is  nothing  (says  Charlevoix),  in  which  these 
barbarians  carry  their  superstitions  farther,  than  in 
what  regards  dreams ;  but  they  vaty  greatly  in  their 
manner  of  explaining  themselves  on  this  point.  Some- 
times it  is  the  reasonable  soul  which  ranges  abroad, 
while  the  sensitive  continues  to  animate  the  body. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  familiar  genius  who  gives  salutary 
coun.'^el  with  respect  to  Avhat  is  going  to  happen. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  visit  made  by  the  soul  of  the  object 
of  which  he  dreams.  But  in  whatever  manner  the 
dream  is  conceived,  it  is  always  looked  upon  as  a 
thing  sacred,  and  as  the  m.ost  ordinary  way  in  which 
the  gods  make  known  their  will  to  men.  Filled  with 
this  idea,  they  cannot  conceive  how  we  should  pay 
no  regard  to  them.  For  the  most  part  they  look  upon 
them  either  as  a  desire  of  the  soul,  inspired  by  some 
genius,  or  an  order  from  him.  and  in  consequence  of 
this  principle  they  hold  it  a  religious  duty  to.  obey 
them.    An  Indian  having  dreamt  of  having  a  fmger 

135 


24 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


cut  oflf^  had  it  really  cut  off  as  soon  as  he  awoke, 
having  first  prepared  himself  for  this  im{X)rtant  action 
by  a  feast.  Another  having  dreamt  of  being  a  prison- 
er, and  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies,  was  much  at  a 
loss  what  to  do.  He  consulted  the  jugglers,  and  by 
their  advice  caused  himself  to  be  tied  to  a  post,  and 
burnt  in  several  parts  of  the  body." — Charlevoix, 
Journal  of  a  Voyage  to  North  Avierica. 

Note  16,  page  15,  col.  1. 
The  crocodile,  the  condor  of  the  rock — 
"  The  alligator,  or  American  crocodile,  when  full- 
grown  (says  Bertram)  is  a  very  large  and  terrible 
creature,  and  of  prodigious  strength,  activity,  and 
swiftness  in  the  water.  I  have  seen  them  twenty 
feet  in  length,  and  some  are  supposed  to  be  twenty- 
two  or  twenty-three  feet  in  length.  Their  body  is  as 
large  as  that  of  a  horse,  their  shape  usually  resembles 
that  of  a  lizard,  which  is  flat,  or  cuneiform,  being 
compressed  on  each  side,  and  gradually  diminishing 
from  the  abdomen  to  the  extremity,  which,  with  the 
whole  body,  is  covered  with  horny  plates,  of  squamag, 
impenetrable  when  on  the  body  of  the  live  animal, 
even  to  a  rifle- ball,  except  about  their  head,  and  just 
behind  their  fore-legs  or  arms,  where,  it  is  said,  they 
are  only  vulnerable.  The  head  of  a  full-grown  one 
is  about  three  feet,  and  the  mouth  opens  nearly  the 
same  length.  Their  eyes  are  small  in  proportion,  and 
seem  sunk  in  the  head,  by  means  of  the  prominency 
of  the  brows ;  the  nostrils  are  large,  inflated,  and 
prominent  on  the  top,  so  that  the  head  on  the  water 
resembles,  at  a  distance,  a  great  chunk  of  wood  float- 
ing about:  only  the  upper  jaw  moves,  which  they  raise 
almost  perpendicular,  so  as  to  form  a  right  angle  with 
the  lower  one.  In  the  fore-part  of  the  upper  jaw,  on 
each  side,  just  under  the  nostrils,  are  two  very  large, 
thick,  strong  teeth,  or  tusks,  not  ver\^  sharp,  but  rather 
the  shape  of  a  cone :  these  are  as  white  as  the  finest 
polished  ivory,  and  are  not  covered  by  any  skin  or  lips 
but  always  in  sight,  which  gives  the  creature  a  fright- 
ful appearance  ;  in  the  lower  jaw  are  holes  opposite  to 
these  teeth  to  receive  them;  when  they  clap  their  jaws 
together,  it  causes  a  surprising  noise,  like  that  w  hich 
is  made  by  forcing  a  heavy  plank  with  violence  upon 
the  ground,  and  may  be  heard  at  a  great  distance. — 
But  what  is  yet  more  surprising  to  a  stranger,  is  the 
incredibly  loud  and  terrifying  roar  which  they  are 
capable  of  making,  especially  in  breeding-time.  It 
most  resembles  very  heavy  distant  thunder,  not  only 
shaking  the  air  and  waters,  but  causing  the  earth  to 
tremble  ;  and  when  hundreds  are  roaring  at  the  same 
time,  you  can  scarcely  be  persuaded  but  that  the  whole 
globe  is  violently  and  dangerously  agitated.  An  old 
champion,  nvho  is,  perhaps,  absolute  sovereign  of  a 
little  lake  or  lagoon  (when  fifty  less  than  himself  are 
obliged  to  content  themselves  with  swelling  and  roar- 
ing in  little  coves  round  about),  darts  forth  from  the 
reedy  coverts,  all  at  once,  on  the  surface  of  the  waters 
in  a  right  line,  at  first  seemingly  as  rapid  as  lightning, 
but  gradually  more  slowly,  until  he  arrives  at  the  centre 
of  the  lake,  where  he  stops.  He  now  swells  himself 
by  drawing  in  wind  and  water  through  his  mouth, 
which  causes  a  loud  sonorous  rattling  in  the  throat 
for  near  a  minute ;  but  it  is  immediately  forced  out 
again  through  his  mouth  and  nostrils  with  a  loud  noise, 
brandishing  his  tail  in  the  air,  and  the  vapor  running 
from  his  nostrils  like  smoke.  At  other  times,  when 
Stwoln  to  an  extent  ready  to  burst,  his  head  and  tail 


lifted  up,  he  spins  or  twirls  round  on  the  surface  of  the 
water.  He  acts  his  part  like  an  Indian  chief,  when 
rehearsing  his  feats  of  war." — Bertram's  Travels  in 
North  America. 

Note  17,  page  15,  col.  1. 
Then  forth  uprose  that  lone  wayfaring  man. 

"  They  discover  an  amazing  sagacity,  and  acquire 
with  the  greatest  readiness,  anything  that  depends 
upon  the  attention  of  the  mind.    Fy  experience,  and 
an  acute  observation,  they  attain  many  perfections 
to  which  Americans  are  strangers.     For  instance, 
they  will   cross   a  forest,  or  a  plain,  which  is  two 
hundred  miles  in  breadth,  so  as  to  reach,  with  great 
exactness,  the  point  at  which  they  intend  to  arrive, 
keeping,  during  the  whole  of  that  space,  in  a  direct 
line,  without  any  material  deviations ;  and  this  they 
will  do  with  the  same  ease,  let  the  weather  be  fair 
or  cloudy.    With  equal  acuteness  they  will  point  to 
that  part  of  the  heavens  the  sun  is  in,  though  it  be 
intercepted  by  clouds  or  fogs.    Besides  this,  they  are 
able  to  pursue,  with  incredible  facility,  the  traces  of 
man  or  beast,  either  on  leaves  or  grass ;  and  on  this 
account  it  is  with  great  difficulty  tliey  escape  dis- 
covery.   They  are  indebted  for  these  talents  not  only    ' 
to  nature,  but  to  an  extraordinary  command  of  the    ' 
intellectual  qualities,  which  can  only  be  acquired  by 
an  unremitted  attention,  and  by  long  experience.  They    ; 
are,  in  general,  very  happy  in  a  retentive  memoiy.    I 
They  can  recapitulate  every  particular  that  has  been    \ 
treated  of  in  council,  and  remember  the  exact  time    ' 
when  they  were  held.    Their  belts  of  wampum  pre-    \ 
serve  the  substance  of  the  treaties  they  have  con-    ! 
eluded  with  the  neighboring  tribes  for  ages  back,  to    ' 
which  they  will  appeal  and  refer  with  as  much  per     j 
spicuity  and   readiness  as  Europeans  can   to  theii    ji 
written  records.  I 

"  The  Indians  are  totally  unskilled  in  geography, 
as  well  as  all  the  other  sciences,  and  yet  they  draw  on 
their  birch-bark  very  exact  charts  or  maps  of  the 
countries  they  are  acquainted  with.  The  latitude  and 
longitude  only  are  wanting  to  make  them  tolerably 
complete. 

"  Their  sole  knowledge  in  astronomy  consists  in 
being  able  to  point  out  the  polar  star,  by  which  they 
regulate  their  course  when  they  travel  in  the  night. 

"  They  reckon  the  distance  of  places  not  by  miles 
or  leagues,  but  by  a  day's  journey,  which,  according 
to  the  best  calculation  I  could  make,  appears  to  be 
about  twenty  English  miles.  These  they  also  divide 
into  halves  and  quarters,  and  will  demonstrate  them 
in  their  maps  with  great  exactness  by  the  hiero- 
glyphics just  mentioned,  when  they  regulate  in  council 
their  war-parties,  or  their  most  distant  hunting  ex- 
cursions."— Lewis  and  Clarke's  Travels. 

"  Some  of  the  French  missionaries  have  supposed 
tha^  the  Indians  are  guided  by  instinct,  and  have  ]  rp- 
tended  that  Indian  children  can  find  their  way  throneh 
a  forest  as  easily  as  a  person  of  maturer  years ;  but 
this  is  a  most  absurd  notion.  It  is  unquestionably  l)y 
a  close  attention  to  the  growth  of  the  trees  and  }o.-i- 
tion  of  the  sun,  that  they  find  their  way.  On  the 
northern  side  of  a  tree  there  is  generally  the  nio<t 
moss;  and  the  bark  on  that  side,  in  general,  differs  liom 
that  on  the  opposite  one.  The  branches  towards  ilie 
south  are,  for  the  most  part,  more  luxuriant  than  tliose 
on  the  other  sides  of  trees,  and  several  other  distinc- 
tions also  subsist  between  the  northern  and  southern 

136 


GERTRUDE  OF  WYO:\IING. 


25 


side,  conspicuous  to  Indians,  being  taught  from  tiieir 
infancy  to  attend  to  them,  which  a  common  observer 
would,  perhaps,  never  notice.  Being  accustomed 
from  their  infancy  likewise  to  pay  great  attention  to 
the  position  of  the  sun,  they  learn  to  make  the  most 
accurate  allowance  for  its  apparent  motion  from  one 
part  of  the  heavens  to  another;  and  in  every  part  of 
the  day  they  will  point  to  the  part  of  the  heavens 
where  it  is,  although  the  sky  be  obscured  by  clouds 
or  mists. 

"An  instance  of  their  dexterity  in  finding  their  way 
through  an  unknown  country  came  under  my  obser- 
vation when  I  was  at  Staunton,  situated  behnid  the 
Blue  Mountains,  Virginia.  A  number  of  the  Creek 
nation  had  arrived  at  that  town  on  their  way  to 
Philadelphia,  whither  they  were  going  upon  some 
affairs  of  importance,  and  had  stopped  there  for  the 
night.  In  the  morning,  some  circumstance  or  another, 
which  could  not  be  learned,  induced  one  half  of  the 
Indians  to  set  off  without  their  companions,  who  did 
not  follow  until  some  hours  afterwards.  When  these 
last  were  ready  to  pursue  their  journey,  several  of 
the  towns-people  mounted  their  horses  to  escort  them 
part  of  the  way.  They  proceeded  along  the  high 
road  for  some  miles,  but,  all  at  once,  hastily  turning 

le  into  the  woods,  though  there  was  no  path,  the 
Indians  advanced  confidently  forward.  The  people 
who  accompanied  them,  surprised  at  this  movement, 
informed  them  that  they  were  quitting  the  road  to 
Philadelphia,  and  expressed  their  fear  lest  they  should 

5s  their  companions  who  had  gone  on  before.  They 
answered  that  they  knew  better,  that  the  way  through 
the  woods  was  the  shortest  to  Philadelphia,  and  that 
they  knew  very  well  that  their  companions  had  en- 
tered the  wood  at  the  very  place  where  they  did. 
Curiosity  led  some  of  the  horsemen  to  go  on ;  and  to 
their  astonishment,  for  there  was  apparently  no  track, 
they  overtook  the  other  Indians  in  the  thickest 
part  of  the  wood.  But  what  appeared  most  singular 
was,  that  the  route  which  they  took  was  found,  on 
examining  a  map,  to  be  as  direct  for  Philadelpliia  as 
if  they  had  taken  the  bearings  by  a  mariner's  com- 
pass. From  others  of  their  nation,  who  had  been  at 
Philadelphia  at  a  former  period,  they  had  probably 
learned  the  exact  direction  of  that  city  from  their 
villages,  and  had  never  lost  sight  of  it,  although  they 
had  already  travelled  three  hundred  miles  through 
the  woods,  and  had  upwards  of  four  hundred  miles 
more  to  go  before  they  could  reach  the  place  of  their 
destination. — Of  the  exactness  with  which  they  can 
find  out  a  strange  place  to  w'hich  they  have  been  once 
directed  by  their  own  people,  a  striking  example  is 
furnished,  I  think,  by  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  his  account  of 
the  Indian  graves  in  Virginia.  These  graves  are 
nothing  more  than  large  mounds  of  earth  in  the 
woods,  which,  on  being  opened,  are  found  to  contain 
'skeletons  in  an  erect  posture :  the  Indian  mode  of 
sepulture  has  been  too  often  described  to  remain  un- 
known to  you.  But  to  come  to  my  stor}-.  A  party  of 
Indians  that  were  passing  on  to  some  of  the  sea-ports 
on  the  Atlantic,  just  as  the  Creeks,  above  mentioned, 
were  going  to  Philadelphia,  w'ere  observed,  all  on  a 
sudden,  to  quit  the  straight  road  by  which  they  were 
proceeding,  and,  without  asking  any  questions,  to 
strike  through  the  woods,  in  a  direct  hne,  to  one  of 
these  graves,  which  lay  at  the  cHstance  of  some  miles 
from  the  road.  Now  very  near  a  century  must  have 
passed  over  since  the  part  of  Virginia,  in  which  this 
18  M  2 


grave  was  situated,  had  been  inhabited  by  Indians, 
and  these  Indian  travellers,  who  were  to  visit  it  by 
themselves,  had  unquestionably  never  been  in  that 
part  of  the  country  belbre :  they  must  have  found 
their  way  to  it  simply  from  the  description  of  its  situ- 
ation, that  had  been  handed  down  to  them  by  tradi 
tion." — Weld's  Travels  i?i  North  America,  vol  ii. 

Note  18,  page  18,  col.  2. 

The  Mammoth  comes. 

That  I  am  justified  in  making  the  Indian  chief 
allude  to  the  mammoth  as  an  emblem  of  terror  and 
destruction,  will  be  seen  by  the  authority  quoted  be- 
low. Speaking  of  the  mammodi,  or  big  buffalo,  Mr. 
Jefferson  states,  that  a  tradition  is  preserved  among 
the  Indians  of  that  animal  still  existmg  in  the  northern 
parts  of  America. 

"  A  delegation  of  warriors  from  the  Delaware  tribe 
having  visited  the  governor  of  Virginia  during  the 
revolution,  on  matters  of  business,  the  governor  asked 
them  some  questions  relative  to  their  countrj^  and 
among  others,  what  they  knew  or  had  heard  of  the 
animal  whose  bones  were  found  at  the  Salt-licks,  on 
the  Ohio.  Their  chief  speaker  immediately  put  him- 
self into  an  attitude  of  oratory,  and  with  a  pomp 
suited  to  what  he  conceived  the  elevation  of  his  sub- 
ject, informed  him,  that  it  was  a  tradition  handed 
down  from  their  fathers,  that  in  ancient  times  a  herd 
of  these  tremendous  animals  came  to  the  Bick-bone 
licks,  and  began  an  universal  destruction  of  the  bear, 
deer,  elk,  buffalo,  and  other  animals  which  had  been 
created  for  the  use  of  the  Indians.  That  the  Great 
Man  above,  looking  down  and  seeing  this,  was  so  en- 
raged, that  he  seized  his  lightning,  descended  on  the 
earth,  seated  himself  on  a  neighboring  mountain  on 
a  rock,  of  which  his  seat  and  the  prints  of  his  feet 
are  still  to  be  seen,  and  hurled  his  bolts  among  them, 
till  the  whole  were  slaughtered,  except  the  big  bull, 
who,  presenting  his  forehead  to  the  shafts,  shook  them 
off  as  they  fell,  but  missing  one  at  length,  it  wounded 
him  in  the  side,  whereupon,  springnig  round,  he 
bounded  over  the  Ohio,  over  the  Wabash,  the  Illinois, 
and  finally  over  the  great  lakes,  where  he  is  living 
at  tliis  day." — Jefferson's  Notes  on  Virginia. 

Note  19,  page  18,  col.  2. 

Scorning  to  wield  the  hatchet  for  his  bribe, 
'Gainst  Brandt  himself  1  went  to  battle  forth. 

I  took  the  character  of  Brandt  in  the  poem  of  Ger- 
trude from  the  common  histories  of  England,  all  of 
which  represented  him  as  a  bloody  and  bad  man 
(even  among  savages),  and  chief  agent  in  the  horrible 
desolation  of  Wyoming.  Some  years  after  this  poem 
appeared,  the  son  of  Brandt,  a  most  interesting  and 
intelligent  youth,  came  over  to  England ;  and  I  form- 
ed an  acquaintance  with  him,  on  which  I  still  look 
back  with  pleasure.  He  appealed  to  my  sense  of 
honor  and  justice,  on  his  own  part  and  on  that  of  his 
sister,  to  retract  the  unfair  aspersion  which,  uncon 
scious  of  its  unfairness,  I  had  cast  on  his  father's 
memory. 

He  then  referred  me  to  documents  which  com- 
pletely satisfied  me  that  the  common  accounts  of 
Brandt's  cruelties  at  Wyoming,  which  I  had  found 
in  books  of  Travels  and  in  Adolphus's  and  similar  his- 
tories of  England,  were  gross  errors,  and  that  in  point 
of  fact  Brandt  was  not  even  present  at  that  scene  of 
desolation. 

137 


26 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  is  unliappily  to  Britons,  and  Anglo-Americans 
that  we  must  refer  the  chief  blame  in  this  horrible 
business.  I  published  a  letter  expressing  this  belief 
in  the  A^ew  Moidlily  Magazine,  in  the  year  1822,  to 
which  I  must  refer  the  reader — if  he  has  any  curi- 
osity on  the  subject — for  an  antidote  to  my  fanciful 
description  of  Brandt.  Among  other  expressions  to 
j'onng  Brandt,  I  made  use  of  the  following  words: — 
"  Had  I  learnt  all  this  of  your  father  \\  hen  I  was 
writing  my  poem,  he  should  not  have  figured  in  it  a.s 
the  hero  of  mischief "  It  was  but  bare  justice  to  say 
thus  much  of  a  Mohawk  Indian,  who  spoke  English 
eloquently,  and  was  thought  capable  of  having  written 
a  history  of  the  Six  Nations.  I  ascertained  also  that  he 
often  strove  to  mitigate  the  cruelty  of  Indian  warfare 
The  name  of  Brandt  therefore  remains  in  my  poem 
a  pure  and  declared  character  of  fiction. 
Note  20,  page  18,  col.  2. 
To  whom  nor  relative  or  blood  remains. 
No!  not  a  kindred  drop  that  runs  in  human  veins. 
Every  one  who  recollects  the  specimen  of  Indian 
eloquence  given  in  the  speech  of  Lo^an,  a  Mingo 
chief,  to  the  governor  of  Virginia,  will  perceive  that 
I  have  attempted  to  paraphrase  its  concluding  and 
most  striking  expression : — "  There  runs  not  a  drop 
of  ray  blood  in  the  veins  of  any  living  creature." 
The  similar  salutations  of  the  fictitious  personage  in 
my  story,  and  the  real  Indian  orator,  makes  it  surely 
allowable  to  borrow  such  an  expression ;  and  if  it 
appears,  as  it  cannot  but  appear,  to  less  advantage 
than  in  the  original,  I  beg  the  reader  to  reflect  how 
difTicult  it  is  to  transpose  such  exquisitely  simple 
words  wiihout  sacrificing  a  portion  of  their  effect. 

In  the  spring  of  1774,  a  robbery  and  murtler  were 
committed  on  an  inhabitant  of  the  frontiers  of  Vir- 
ginia, by  two  Indians  of  the  Shawanee  tribe.  The 
neighboring  whites,  according  to  their  custom,  un- 
dertook to  punish  this  outrage  in  a  summary  manner. 
Colonel  Cresap,  a  man  infamous  for  the  many  mur- 
ders he  had  committed  on  those  much-injured  people, 
collected  a  party  and  proceeded  down  the  Kanaway 
in  quest  of  vengeance;  unfortunately,  a  canoe  with 


women  and  children,  with  one  man  only,  was  seen 
coming  iiom  the  opposite  shore,  unarmed,  and  unsus- 
pecting an  attack  from  the  whites.  Cresap  and  his 
party  concealed  themselves  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  , 
and  the  moment  the  canoe  reached  the  shore,  singled  ' 
out  their  objects,  and  at  one  fire  killed  every  person 
in  it.  This  happened  to  be  the  family  of  Logan, 
who  had  long  been  distinguished  as  a  friend  to  the 
whites.  This  unworthy  return  provoked  his  ven- 
geance ;  he  accordingly  signalized  himself  in  the 
war  which  ensued.  In  the  auturon  of  the  same 
year  a  decisive  battle  was  fought  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Great  Kanaway,  in  which  the  collected  forces  of 
the  Shawanees,  Mingoes,  and  Delawares,  were  de- 
feated by  a  detachment  of  the  Virginian  militia.  The 
Indians  sued  for  peace.  Logan,  however,  disdained 
to  be  seen  among  the  suppliants ;  but  lest  the  sin- 
cerity of  a  treaty  should  be  disturbed,  from  which  so 
distinguished  a  chief  abstracted  liimself,  he  sent  by 
a  messenger  the  foUovving  speech  to  be  delivered  to 
Lord  Dunmore : — 

"I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered 
Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  to  cat . 
if  ever  he  came  cold  and  hungry,  and  he  clothed 
him  not.  During  the  course  of  the  last  long  and 
bloody  war,  Logan  remained  idle  in  his  cabin,  an  ad- 
vocate for  peace.  Such  was  my  love  for  the  whites 
that  my  countr}'men  pointed  as  they  passed,  and  said 
Logan  is  the  friend  of  white  men.  I  have  eve: 
thought  to  have  lived  with  you  but  for  the  injuri 
of  one  man.  Colonel  Cresap,  the  last  spring,  in  co'n 
blood,  murilered  all  the  relations  of  Logan,  even  ni; 
women  and  children. 

"There  runs  not  a  drop  of  my  blood  in  the  vein- 
of  any  living  creature : — this  called  on  me  for  rr 
venge. — I  have  fought  for  it. — I  have  killed  many.— 
I  have  fully  glutted  my  vengeance. — Forniycounlr 
I  rejoice  at  the  beams  of  peace ; — but  do  not  harbc 
a  thought  that  mine  is  the  joy  of  fear. — Logan  nevi 
felt  fear. — He  will  not  turn  on  his  heel  to  save  in 
life. — Who  is  there  to  mourn  for  Logan?  not  one!" 
— Jeffehso.n's  Notes  on  Virginia. 


A  DOMESTIC   TALE. 


'T  WAS  sunset,  and  the  Ranz  des  Vaches  was  sung, 
And  lights  were  o'er  th'  Hoivetian  mountains  flung, 
That  gave  the  glacier  tops  their  richest  glow,  (1) 
And  tinged  the  lakes  like  molten  gold  below. 
Warmth  flush'd  the  wonted  regions  of  the  storm, 
Where,  phcenix-like,  you  saw  the  eagle's  form. 
That  high  in  heaven's  vermilion  wheel'd  and  soar'd. 
Woods  nearer  frown'd,  and  cataracts  dash'd  and  roar'd. 
From  heights  browsed  by  the  bomiding  bouquetin;(2) 
Herds  tinkling  roam'd  the  long-drawn  vales  between, 
And  hamlets  glitter'd  wliite,  and  gardens  flourish'd 

green. 
'Twas  transport  to  inhale  the  bright  sweet  air! 
The  mountain-bee  was  revelling  in  its  glare, 
And  roving  with  his  minstrelsy  across 
The  scented  wild  weeds,  and  enamell'd  moss.  (3) 
Earth's  features  so  harmoniously  were  link'd, 
She  seem'd  one  great  glad  form,  with  life  instinct, 
That  felt  Heaven's  ardent  breath,  and  smiled  below 
Its  flush  of  love,  with  consentaneous  glow. 


A  Gothic  church  was  near ;  the  spot  around 
Was  beautiful ;  ev'n  though  sepulchral  ground  ; 
For  there  no  yew  nor  cypress  spread  their  gloom. 
But  roses  blossom'd  by  each  rustic  tomb. 
Amidst  them  one  of  spotless  marble  shone — 
A  maiden's  grave — and  'twas  inscribed  thereon. 
That  young  and  loved  she  died  \\hose  dust  was  there 

"  Yes,"  said  my  comrade,  "  yoimg  she  died,  and  fair 
Grace  form'd  her,  and  the  soul  of  gladness  play'd 
Once  in  the  blue  eyes  of  that  mountain-maid: 
Her  fingers  wilch'd  the  chords  they  pass'd  along, 
And  her  lips  seem'd  to  kiss  the  soid  in  song: 
Yet  woo'd  and  worshipp'd  as  she  was.  till  few- 
Aspired  to  hope,  't  was  sadly,  strangely  true, 
That  heart,  tlie  martyr  of  iis  fondness,  burn'd 
And  died  of  love  that  could  not  be  relurn'd 

Her  father  dwelt  where  j'onder  Castle  shines 
O'er  clustering  trees  and  terrace-mantling  rines 

138 


THEODRIC. 


27 


As  gay  as  ever,  the  laburnum's  pride 

Waves  o'er  each  walk  where  she  was  wont  to  glide, — 

And  still  the  garden  whence  she  graced  her  brow, 

As  lovely  blooms,  though  trode  by  strangei-s  now. 

How  oft  from  3-onder  window  o'er  the  lake, 

Her  song  of  wild  Helvetian  swell  and  shake, 

Has  made  the  rudest  fisher  bend  his  ear. 

And  rest  enchanted  on  his  oar  to  hear ! 

Thus  bright,  accompUsh'd,  spirited,  and  bland, 

Well-born,  and  wealthy  for  that  simple  land, 

Why  had  no  gallant  native  youth  the  art 

To  win  so  warm — so  exquisite  a  heart  ? 

She,  'midst  these  rocks  inspired  with  feelings  strong 

By  mountain-freedom — music — fancy — song, 

Herself  descended  from  the  brave  in  arms, 

And  conscious  of  romance-inspiring  charms, 

Dreamt  of  heroic  beings ;  hoped  to  fmd 

Some  extant  spirit  of  chivalric  kind  ; 

And,  scorning  wealth,  look'd  cold  ev'n  on  the  claim 

Of  manly  worth,  that  lack'd  the  wreath  of  fame. 

Her  younger  brother,  sixteen  summers  old. 
And  much  her  likeness  both  in  mind  and  mould, 
Had  gone,  poor  boy !  in  soldiership  to  shine, 
And  bore  an  Austrian  banner  on  the  Rhine. 
'T  was  when,  alas  !  our  Empire's  evil  star 
Shed  all  the  plagues,  without  the  pride,  of  war ; 
When  patriots  bled,  and  bitter  anguish  cross'd 
Our  brave,  to  die  in  battles  foully  lost. 
The  youth  wrote  home  the  rout  of  many  a  day ; 
Yet  still  he  said,  and  still  with  truth  could  say, 
One  corps  had  ever  made  a  valiant  stand, 
The  corps  in  which  he  served, — Theodric's  band. 
His  fame,  forgotten  chief,  is  now  gone  by, 
Eclipsed  by  brighter  orbs  in  glory's  sky  ; 
Yet  once  it  shone,  and  veterans,  when  they  show 
Oiir  fields  of  battle  twenty  years  ago. 
Will  tell  you  feats  his  small  brigade  perform'd, 
In  charges  nobly  faced  and  trenches  storm'd. 
Time  was,  when  songs  were  chanted  to  his  fame. 
And  soldiers  loved  the  march  that  bore  his  name; 
The  zeal  of  martial  hearts  was  at  his  call, 
And  that  Helvetian,  Udolph's,  most  of  all. 
'T  was  touching,  when  the  storm  of  war  blew  wild. 
To  see  a  blooming  boy, — almost  a  child, — 
Spur  fearless  at  his  leader's  words  and  signs, 
brave  death  in  reconnoitring  hostile  lines. 
And  speed  each  task,  and  tell  each  message  clear. 
In  scenes  where  war-train'd  men  were  stunn'd  with 
fear. 

Theodric  praised  him,  and  they  wept  for  joy 
In  yonder  house, — when  letters  from  the  boy 
Thank'd  Heav'n  for  life,  and  more,  to  use  his  phrase, 
Than  twenty  lives — his  own  Commander's  praise. 
Then  follow'd  glowing  pages,  blazoning  forth 
The  fancied  image  of  his  Leader's  worth, 
With  such  hyperboles  of  youthful  style 
As  made  his  parents  dry  their  tears  and  smile : 
But  differently  far  his  words  impress'd 
A  wond'ring  sister's  w^ell-believing  breast ; — 
She  caught  th'  illusion,  blest  Theodric's  name, 
And  wildly  magnified  his  worth  and  fame ; 
Rejoicing  life's  reality  contain'd 
One,  heretofore,  her  fancy  had  but  feign'd. 
Whose  love  could  make  her  proud;  and  time  and 

chance 
To  passion  raised  that  day-dream  of  Romance. 


Once,  when  with  hasty  charge  of  horse  and  man 
Our  arriere-guard  had  check'd  the  Gallic  van, 
Theodric,  visiting  the  outposts,  found 
His  Udolph  wounded,  weltering  on  the  ground : — 
Sore  crush'd, — half-swooning,  half-upraised,  he  lay, 
And  bent  his  brow,  fair  boy !  and  grasp'd  the  clay. 
His  fate  moved  ev'n  the  common  soldier's  ruth — 
Theodric  succor'd  him ;  nor  left  the  j'^oulh 
To  vulgar  hands,  but  brought  him  to  his  tent. 
And  lent  what  aid  a  brother  would  have  lent. 

Meanwhile,  to  save  his  kindred  half  the  smart 
The  war-gazette's  dread  blood-roil  might  impart, 
He  wrote  th'  event  to  them ;  and  scon  could  tell 
Of  pains  assuaged  and  symptoms  auguring  well; 
And  last  of  all,  prognosticating  cure, 
Enclosed  the  leech's  vouching  signature. 

Their  answers,  on  whose  pages  you  might  note 
That  tears  had  fall'n,  whilst  trembling  fingers  wrote 
Gave  boundless  thanks  for  benefits  conferr'd. 
Of  which  the  boy,  in  secret,  sent  them  word, 
Whose  memory  Time,  they  said,  would  never  blot , 
But  which  the  giver  had  himself  forgot. 

In  time,  the  stripling,  vigorous  and  heal'd, 
Resumed  his  barb  and  banner  in  the  field, 
And  bore  himself  right  soldier-like,  till  now 
The  third  campaign  had  manlier  bronzed  his  brow; 
When  peace,  though  but  a  scanty  pause  for  breath, — 
A  curtain-drop  between  the  acts  of  death, — 
A  check  in  frantic  war's  unfinish'd  game, 
Yet  dearly  bought,  and  direly  welcome,  came. 
The  camp  broke  up,  and  Udolph  left  his  chief 
As  with  a  son's  or  younger  brother's  grief: 
But  journeying  home,  how  rapt  his  spirits  rose ! 
How  light  his  footsteps  crush'd  St.  Gothard's  snows . 
How  dear  seem'd  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  Schreck- 

horn,  (4) 
Though  rapt  in  clouds,  and  frowning  as  in  scorn 
Upon  a  dovraward  world  of  pastoral  charms ; 
Where,  by  the  very  sm.ell  of  dairy-farms. 
And  fragrance  from  the  mountain-herbage  blown. 
Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known !  (5) 

His  coming  down  yon  lake, — his  boat  in  view 
Of  windows  where  love's  fluttering  kerchief  flew, — 
The  arms  spread  out  for  him — the  tears  that  burst,-j 
('T  was  Julia's,  't  was  his  sister's,  met  him  first :) 
Their  pride  to  see  war's  medal  at  his  breast. 
And  all  their  rapture's  greeting,  may  be  guess'd 

Erelong,  his  bosom  triumph'd  to  unfold 
A  gift  he  meant  their  gayest  room  to  hold, — 
The  picture  of  a  friend  in  warlike  dress  ; 
And  who  it  was  he  first  bade  Julia  guess. 
"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "'twas  he  me  thought  in  sleep, 
When  you  were  wounded,  told  me  not  to  weep. 
The  painting  long  in  that  sweet  mansion  drew 
Regards  its  living  semblance  little  knew. 

Meanwhile  Theodric,  who  had  years  before 
Learnt  England's  tongue,  and  loved  her  classic  lore 
A  glad  enthusiast  now  explored  the  land. 
Where  Nature,  Freedom,  Art,  smile  hand  in  hand- 
Her  women  fair ;  her  men  robust  for  toil ; 
Her  vigorous  souls,  liigh-cultured  as  her  soil ; 

XOi) 


28 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Her  towns,  where  civic  independence  flings 

The  gauntlet  down  to  senates,  courts,  and  kings ; 

Her  works  of  art,  resembhng  magic's  powders ; 

Her  mighty  fleets,  and  learning's  beauteous  bowers, — 

These  he  had  visited,  with  wonder's  smile, 

And  scarce  endured  to  quit  so  fair  an  isle. 

But  how  our  fates  from  unmomentous  things 

May  rise,  like  rivers  out  of  little  springs ! 

A  tri\'ial  chance  postponed  his  parting  day, 

And  public  tidings  caused,  in  that  delay. 

An  English  jubilee.    'T  was  a  glorious  sight; 

At  eve  stupendous  London,  clad  in  light, 

Pour'd  out  triumphant  multitudes  to  gaze ; 

Youth,  age,  wealth,  penury,  smiling  in  the  blaze ; 

Th'  illumined  atmosphere  w  as  w^arm  and  bland, 

And  Beauty's  groups,  the  fairest  of  the  land, 

Conspicuous,  as  in  some  wide  festive  room. 

In  open  chariots  pass'd  with  pearl  and  plume. 

Amidst  them  he  remark'd  a  lovelier  mien 

Than  e'er  his  thoughts  had  shaped,  or  eyes  had  seen : 

The  throng  detain'd  her  till  he  rein'd  his  steed, 

^Ind,  ere  the  beauty  pass'd,  had  time  to  read 

The  motto  and  the  arms  her  carriage  bore. 

Led  by  that  clue,  he  left  not  England's  shore 

Till  he  had  known  her :  and  to  know  her  well 

Prolong'd,  exalted,  bound,  enchantment's  spell ; 

For,  with  atfections  warm,  intense,  refined. 

She  mix'd  such  calm  and  holy  strength  of  mind, 

That,  like  Heaven's  image  in  the  smiling  brook, 

Celestial  peace  was  pictured  in  her  look. 

Hers  was  the  brow,  in  trials  unperplex'd. 

That  cheer'd  the  sad  and  tranquillized  the  vex'd ; 

She  studied  not  the  meanest  to  eclipse. 

And  yet  the  wisest  listen'd  to  her  lips ; 

She  sang  not,  knew  not  Music's  magic  skill. 

But  yet  her  voice  had  tones  that  sway'd  the  will. 

He  sought — ^lie  won  her — and  resolved  to  make 

His  future  home  in  England  for  her  sake. 


Yet,  ere  they  wedded,  matters  of  concern 
To  Caesar's  Court  commanded  his  return, 
A  season's  space, — and  on  his  Alpine  way. 
He  reach'd  those  bowers,  that  rang  with  joy  that  day ; 
The  boy  was  half  beside  himself, — the  sire 
All  frankness,  honor,  and  Helvetian  lire, 
Of  speedy  parting  would  not  hear  him  speak ; 
And  tears  bedew'd  and  brighten'd  Julia's  cheek. 

Thus,  loth  to  wound  their  hospitable  pride 
A  month  he  promised  with  them  to  abide ; 
As  blithe  he  trode  the  mountain-sward  as  they. 
And  felt  his  joy  make  ev'n  the  young  more  gay. 
How  jocund  was  their  breakfast-parlor  faim'd 
By  yon  blue  water's  breath — their  walks  how  bland ! 
Fair  Julia  seem'd  her  brother's  soften'd  sprite — 
A  gem  reflecting  Nature's  purest  light, 
And  with  her  graceful  wit  there  was  inwrought 
A  wildly  sweet  unworldliness  of  thought. 
That  almost  child-like  to  his  kindness  drew. 
And  twin  with  Udolph  in  his  friendship  grew. 
But  did  his  thoughts  to  love  one  moment  range  ? — 
No '  he  who  had  loved  Constance  could  not  change! 
Besides,  till  grief  betray'd  her  undesign'd, 
Th'  unlikely  thought  could  scarcely  reach  his  mind. 
That  eyes  so  young  on  years  like  his  should  beam 
Unwoo'd  devotion  back  for  pure  esteem. 


True,  she  sang  to  his  very  soul,  and  brought 
Those  trains  before  him  of  luxuriant  thought 
{which  only  Music's  Heav'n-born  art  can  bring, 
1  To  sweep  across  the  mind  with  angel  wing. 
Once,  as  he  smiled  amidst  that  waking  trance. 
She  paused  o'ercome  :  he  thought  it  might  be  chance 
And,  when  his  first  suspicions  dimly  stole. 
Rebuked  them  back  like  phantoms  from  his  soul. 
But  when  he  saw-  his  caution  gave  her  pain, 
And  kindness  brought  suspense's  rack  again, 
Faith,  honor,  friendship  bound  liim  to  unmask 
Truths  which  her  timid  fondness  fear'd  to  ask. 

And  yet  with  gracefully  ingenuous  power 
Her  spirit  met  th'  explanatory  hour ; — 
Ev'n  conscious  beauty  brighten'd  in  her  eyes, 
That  told  she  knew  their  love  no  vulgar  prize ; 
And  pride,  like  that,  of  one  more  woman-grown, 
Enlarged  her  mien,  cnrich'd  her  voice's  tone. 
'T  was  then  she  struck  the  keys,  and  music  made 
That  mock'd  all  skill  her  hand  had  e'er  display'd  : 
Inspired  and  warbhng,  rapt  from  things  around, 
She  look'd  the  very  Muse  of  magic  sound, 
Painting  in  sound  the  forms  of  joy  and  woe, 
Until  the  mind's  eye  saw  them  melt  and  glow. 
Her  closing  strain  composed  and  calm  she  play'd. 
And  sang  no  words  to  give  its  pathos  aid  ; 
But  grief  seem'd  ling'ring  in  its  lengthen'd  swell. 
And  like  so  many  tears  the  trickling  touches  fell. 
Of  Constance  then  she  heard  Theodric  speak. 
And  stedfast  smoothness  still  posscss'd  her  cheek  ; 
But  when  he  told  her  how  he  oft  had  plann'd 
Of  old  a  journey  to  their  mountain-land. 
That  might  have  brought  him  hither  years  before, 
"Ah  I  then,"  she  cried,  "  you  kne w^  not  England's  shore 
And  had  you  come — and  wherefore  did  you  not?" 
"  Yes,'.'  he  replied,  "  it  would  have  changed  our  lot.  " 
Then  burst  her  tears  through  pride's  restraining  bands, 
And  with  her  handkerchief,  and  both  her  hands, 
She  hid  her  face  and  wept. — Contrition  stung 
Theodric  for  the  tears  his  words  had  wrung. 
"  But  no,"  she  cried,  "  unsay  not  w  hat  you  've  said, 
Nor  grudge  one  prop  on  which  my  pride  is  stay'd; 
To  think  I  could  have  merited  your  faith, 
Shall  be  my  solace  even  unto  death !" 
"Julia,"  Theodric  said,  with  purposed  look 
Of  firmness,  "  my  reply  deserved  rebuke; 
But  by  your  pure  and  sacred  peace  of  mind, 
And  by  the  dignity  of  womankind. 
Swear  that  when  I  am  gone  you  '11  do  your  best 
To  chase  this  dream  of  fondness  from  your  breast." 

Th'  abrupt  appeal  electrified  her  thought ; — 
She  look'd  to  heav'n,  as  if  its  aid  she  sought, 
Dried  hastily  the  tear-drops  from  her  cheek. 
And  signified  the  vow  she  could  not  speak. 

Erelong  he  communed  with  her  mother  mild : 
"  Alas!"  she  said,  "I  wam'd — conjured  my  child, 
And  grieved  for  this  affection  from  the  first, 
But  like  fatality  it'has  been  nursed  ; 
For  when  her  fill'd  eyes  on  your  picture  fix'd, 
And  when  your  name  in  all  she  spoke  was  mix'd, 
'T  was  hard  to  chide  an  over-grateful  mind ! 
Then  each  attempt  a  likelier  choice  to  find 
Made  only  fresh-rejected  suitors  grieve. 
And  Udolph's  pride — perhaps  her  ow^n — believe 

140 


THEODRIC. 


29 


That  could  she  meet,  she  might  enchant  even  you. 

You  came. — I  augur'd  the  event,  't  is  true  : 

But  how  was  Udolph's  mother  to  exclude 

The  guest  that  claim'd  our  boundless  gratitude  ? 

And  that  unconscious  you  had  cast  a  spell 

On  Julia's  peace,  my  pride  refused  to  tell ; 

Yet  in  my  child's  illusion  I  have  seen, 

Believe  me  well,  how  blameless  you  have  been : 

Nor  can  it  cancel,  howsoe'er  it  end. 

Our  debt  of  friendship  to  our  boy's  best  friend." 

At  night  he  parted  with  the  aged  pair ; 

At  early  morn  rose  Julia  to  prepare 

The  last  repast  her  hands  for  him  should  make  ; 

And  Udolph  to  convoy  him  o'er  the  lake. 

The  parting  was  to  her  such  bitter  grief, 

That  of  her  own  accord  she  made  it  brief; 

But,  ling'ring  at  her  window,  long  survey'd 

His  boat's  last  glimpses  melting  into  shade. 

Theodric  sped  to  Austria,  and  achieved 
His  journey's  object.    Much  was  he  relieved 
When  Udolph's  letters  told  that  Julia's  mind 
Had  borne  his  loss  firm,  tranquil,  and  resign'd. 
He  took  the  Rhenish  route  to  England,  high 
Elate  with  hopes,  fulfill'd  their  ecstasy, 
And  interchanged  with  Constance's  own  breath 
The  sweet  eternal  vows  that  bound  their  faith. 

To  paint  that  being  to  a  grovelling  mind 
Were  like  portraying  pictures  to  the  blind. 
'Twas  needful  ev'n  infectiously  to  feel 
Her  temper's  fond  and  firm  and  gladsome  zeal, 
To  share  existence  with  her,  and  to  gain 
Sparks  from  her  love's  electrifying  chain, 
Of  that  pure  pride,  which,  less'ning  to  her  breast 
Life's  ills,  gave  all  its  joys  a  treble  zest, 
Before  the  mind  completely  understood 
That  mighty  truth — how  happy  are  the  good ! 

Ev'n  when  her  light  forsook  him,  it  bequeath'd 
Ennobling  sorrow ;  and  her  memory  breathed 
A  sweetness  that  sur\-ived  her  living  days 
As  od'rous  scents  outlast  the  censer's  blaze. 

Or  if  a  trouble  dimm'd  their  golden  joy, 
'T  was  outward  dross,  and  not  infused  alloy : 
Their  home  knew  but  affection's  looks  and  speech — 
A  little  Heav'n,  above  dissension's  reach. 
But  'midst  her  kindred  there  was  strife  and  gall ; 
Save  one  congenial  sister,  they  were  all 
Such  foils  to  her  bright  intellect  and  grace. 
As  if  she  had  engross'd  the  virtue  of  her  race. 
Her  nature  strove  th'  unnatural  feuds  to  heal. 
Her  wisdom  made  the  w  eak  to  her  appeal ; 
And  though  the  wounds  she  cured  were  soon  unclosed, 

!  Unwearied  still  her  kindness  interposed. 
Oft  on  those  errands  though  she  went,  in  vain. 
And  home,  a  blank  without  her,  gave  him  pain, 
He  bore  her  absence  for  its  pious  end. — 
But  public  grief  his  spirit  came  to  bend; 
For  Avar  laid  waste  his  native  land  once  more, 
And  German  honor  bled  at  every  pore. 
Oh !  were  he  there,  he  thought,  to  rally  back 
One  broken  band,  or  perish  in  the  WTack ! 
Nor  think  that  Constance  sought  to  move  or  melt 
His  purpose  :  like  herself  she  spoke  and  felt : — 
"  Your  fame  is  mine,  and  I  will  bear  all  woe 
Except  its  loss ! — but  with  you  let  me  go, 


To  arm  you  for,  to  embrace  you  from  the  fight ; 
Harm  will  not  reach  me — hazards  will  delight'" 
He  knew  those  hazards  belter ;  one  campaign 
In  England  he  conjured  her  to  remain. 
And  she  express'd  assent,  although  her  heart 
In  secret  had  resolved  they  should  not  part. 

How  oft  the  wisest  on  misfortune's  shelves 
Are  wreck'd  by  errors  most  unlike  themselves ! 
That  little  fault,  that  fraud  of  love's  romance, 
That  plan's  concealment,  wrought  their  whole  mis 

chance. 
He  knew  it  not,  preparing  to  embark. 
But  felt  extinct  his  comfort's  latest  spark. 
When,  'midst  those  number'd  days,  she  made  repair 
Again  to  kindred  worthless  of  her  care. 
'T  is  true,  she  said  the  tidings  she  should  write 
Would  make  her  absence  on  his  heart  sit  Hght ; 
But,  haplessly,  reveal'd  not  yet  her  plan. 
And  left  him  in  his  home  a  lonely  man. 

Thus  damp'd  in  thoughts,  he  mused  upon  the  past' 
'T  was  long  since  he  had  heard  from  Udolph  last. 
And  deep  misgivings  on  his  spirit  fell. 
That  all  with  Udolph's  household  was  not  well. 
'T  w  as  that  too  true  prophetic  mood  of  fear 
That  augurs  griefs  inevitably  near, 
Yet  makes  them  not  less  startling  to  the  mind, 
WTien  come.    Least  look'd-for  then  of  human  kind, 
His  Udolph  ('t  was,  he  thought  at  first,  his  sprite) 
With  mournful  joy  that  morn  surprised  his  sight 
How  changed  was  Udolph !  Scarce  Theodric  durst 
Inquire  his  tidings, — he  reveal'd  the  worst. 
"At  first,"  he  said,  "  as  Julia  bade  me  tell. 
She  bore  her  fate  high-mindedly  and  well, 
Resolved  from  common  eyes  her  grief  to  hide. 
And  from  the  world's  compassion  save  our  pride ; 
But  still  her  health  gave  way  to  secret  woe. 
And  long  she  pined — for  broken  hearts  die  slow ! 
Her  reason  went,  but  came  returning,  like 
The  warning  of  her  death-hour — soon  to  strike  : 
And  all  for  which  she  now,  poor  sufferer !  sighs, 
Is  once  to  see  Theodric  ere  she  dies. 
Why  should  I  come  to  tell  you  this  caprice  ! 
Forgive  me  !  for  my  mind  has  lost  its  peace. 
I  blame  myself,  and  ne'er  shall  cease  to  blame, 
That  my  insane  ambition  for  the  name 
Of  brother  to  Theodric,  founded  all 
Those  high-built  hopes  that  crush'd  her  by  their  fall 
I  made  her  slight  a  mother's  counsel  sage, 
But  now  my  parents  droop  with  grief  and  age ; 
And  though  my  sister's  eyes  mean  no  rebuke. 
They  overwhelm  me  with  their  dying  look. 
The  journey 's  long,  but  you  are  full  of  ruth ; 
And  she  who  shares  your  heart  and  knows  its  truth 
Has  faith  in  your  affection,  far  above 
The  fear  of  a  poor  dying  object's  love." — 
"  She  has,  my  Udolph,"  he  rephed,  "  't  is  true  ; 
And  oft  we  talk  of  Julia — oft  of  you." 
Their  converse  came  abruptly  to  a  close ; 
For  scarce  could  each  his  troubled  looks  compose, 
When  visitants,  to  Constance  near  akin 
(In  all  but  traits  of  soul),  were  usher'd  in. 
They  brought  not  her,  nor  midst  their  kindred  band 
The  sister  who  alone,  like  her,  was  bland ; 
But  said — and  smiled  to  see  it  give  him  pain — 
That  Constance  would  a  fortnight  yet  remam. 

141 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vex'd  by  their  tidings,  and  the  haughty  \iew 
They  cast  on  Udolph  as  the  youth  \\illidre\v, 
Theodric  blamed  his  Constance's  intent. — 
The  demons  went,  and  left  him  as  they  went, 
To  read,  when  they  were  gone  beyond  recall, 
A  note  from  her  loved  hand,  explaining  all. 
She  said,  that  with  their  house  she  only  staid 
That  parting  peace  might  with  them  all  be  made  ; 
But  pray'd  for  love  to  share  his  foreign  life, 
And  shun  all  future  chance  of  kindred  strife. 
He  wrote  with  speed,  his  soul's  consent  to  say: 
The  letter  miss'd  her  on  her  homeward  way. 
In  six  hours  Constance  was  within  his  arms : 
Moved,  flush'd,  unlike  her  wonted  calm  of  charms. 
And  breathless — with  uplifted  hands  outspread — 
Burst  into  tears  upon  his  neck,  and  said, — 
••I  knew  that  those  who  brought  your  message  laugh'd. 
With  poison  of  their  own  to  point  the  shaft ; 
And  this  my  o\\ti  kind  sister  thought,  yet  loth 
Confess'd  she  fear'd  'twas  true  you  had  been  wroth, 
But  here  you  are,  and  smile  on  me :  my  pain 
Is  gone,  and  Constance  is  herself  again." 
His  ecstasy,  it  may  be  guess'd,  was  much : 
Yet  pain's  extreme  and  pleasure's  seem'd  to  touch. 
What  pride !  embracing  beauty's  perfect  mould ; 
"What  terror !  lest  his  few  rash  words,  mistold, 
Had  agonized  her  pulse  to  fever's  heat : 
But  calm'd  again  so  soon  its  healthful  beat. 
And  such  sweet  tones  were  in  her  voice's  sound, 
Composed  herself,  she  breathed  composure  round. 

Fair  being !  with  what  sympathetic  grace 
She  heard,  bewail'd,  and  pleaded  Julia's  case ; 
Implored  he  would  her  dying  Avish  attend, 
"  And  go,"  she  said,  "  to-morrow  with  your  friend  ; 
I  '11  wait  for  your  return  on  England's  shore, 
And  then  we  'II  cross  the  deep,  and  part  no  more." 

To-morrow  both  his  soul's  compassion  drew 
To  Julia's  call,  and  Constance  urged  anew 
That  not  to  heed  her  now  would  be  to  bind 
A  load  of  pain  for  life  upon  his  mind. 
He  went  with  Udolph — from  his  Constance  went — 
Stifling,  alas  !  a  dark  presentiment 
Some  ailment  lurk'd,  ev'n  Avhilst  she  smiled,  to  mock 
His  fears  of  harm  from  yester-moming  s  shock. 
Meanwhile  a  faithful  page  he  singled  out, 
To  watch  at  home,  and  follow  straight  his  route. 
If  aught  of  threaten'd  change  her  health  should  show: 
— With  Udolph  then  he  reach'd  the  house  of  woe. 

That  winter's  eve  how  darkly  Nature's  brow 
Scowl'd  on  the  scenes  it  lights  so  lovely  now! 
The  tempest,  raging  o'er  the  realms  of  ice, 
Shook  fragments  from  the  rifted  precipice ; 
And  whilst  their  falling  echoed  to  the  wind, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  in  dismal  discord  join'd; 
While  white  yon  water's  foam  was  raised  in  clouds, 
That  whirl'd  like  spirits  wailing  in  their  shrouds : 
Without  was  Nature's  elemental  din — 
And  beauty  died,  and  friendship  wept,  within! 

Sweet  Julia,  though  her  fate  was  finish'd  half, 
Sull  knew  him — smiled  on  him  with  feeble  laugh — 
And  blest  hira,  till  she  drew  her  latest  sigh  ! 
But  lo !  while  Udolph's  bursts  of  agony. 
And  age's  tremulous  w^ailings,  round  him  rose, 
What  accents  pierced  him  deeper  yet  than  those ! 


'T  was  tidings,  by  his  English  messenger. 

Of  Constance — brief  and  terrible  they  were. 

She  still  was  living  when  the  page  set  out 

From  home,  but  whether  now  wa.s  left  in  doubt. 

Poor  Julia !  saw  he  then  thy  death's  relief — 

Stunn'd  into  stupor  more  than  wrung  with  grief? 

It  was  not  strange ;  for  in  the  human  breast 

Two  master-passions  cannot  co-exist, 

And  that  alarm  which  now  usurp'd  his  brain 

Shut  out  not  only  peace,  but  other  pain. 

'T  was  fancying  Constance  underneath  the  shroud 

That  cover'd  Julia  made  him  first  weep  loud, 

And  tear  himself  away  from  them  that  wept. 

Fast  hurrying  homeward,  night  nor  day  he  slept, 

Till,  launch'd  at  sea,  he  dreamt  that  his  soul's  saint 

Clung  to  him  on  a  bridge  of  ice,  pale,  faint, 

O'er  cataracts  of  blood.    Awake,  he  bless'd 

The  shore ;  nor  hope  left  utterly  his  breast. 

Till  reaching  home,  terrific  omen !  there 

The  straw-laid  street  preluded  his  despair — 

The  servant's  look — the  table  that  reveal'd 

His  letter  sent  to  Constance  last,  still  seal'd. 

Though  speech  and  hearing  left  him,  told  too  clear 

That  he  had  now  to  suffer — not  to  fear. 

He  felt  as  if  he  ne'er  should  cease  to  feel 

A  wretch  live-broken  on  misfortune's  wheel ; 

Her  death's  cause — he  might  make  his  peace  with 

Heaven, 
Absolved  from  guilt,  but  never  self-forgiven. 

The  ocean  has  its  ebbings — so  has  grief; 
'T  was  vent  to  anguish,  if  't  was  not  relief. 
To  lay  his  brow  ev'n  on  her  death-cold  cheek. 
Then  first  he  heard  her  one  kind  sister  speak: 
She  bade  him,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  forbear 
With  self  reproach  to  deepen  his  despair : 
"  'T  was  blame,"  she  said,  "  I  shudder  to  relate, 
But  none  of  yours,  that  caused  our  darling's  fate  ; 
Her  mother  (must  I  call  her  such  ?)  foresaw, 
Should  Constance  leave  the  land,  she  would  withdraw 
Our  House's  charm  against  the  world's  neglect — 
The  only  gem  that  drew  it  some  respect. 
Hence,  when  you  went,  she  came  and  vainly  spoke 
To  change  her  purpose — grew  incensed,  and  broke 
With  execrations  from  her  kneeling  child. 
Start  not !  your  angel  from  her  knee  rose  mild, 
Fear'd  that  she  should  not  long  the  scene  outlive, 
Yet  bade  ev'n  you  th'  imnatural  one  forgive. 
Till  then  her  ailment  had  been  slight,  or  none; 
But  fast  she  droop'd,  and  fatal  pains  came  on: 
Foreseeing  their  event,  she  dictated 
And  sign'd  these  words  for  you."   The  letter  said — 

"Theodric,  this  is  destiny  above 
Our  power  to  baffle  ;  bear  it  then,  my  love ! 
Rave  not  to  learn  the  usage  I  have  borne. 
For  one  true  sister  left  me  not  forlorn  ; 
And  though  you  're  absent  in  another  land. 
Sent  from  me  by  my  own  well-meant  command, 
Your  soul,  I  know,  as  firm  is  knit  to  mine 
As  these  clasp'd  hands  in  blessing  you  now  join : 
Shape  not  imagined  horrors  in  my  fate — 
Ev'n  now  my  sufferings  are  not  very  great ; 
And  when  your  grief's  first  transports  shall  subside, 
I  call  upon  your  strength  of  soul  and  pride 
To  pay  my  memory,  if  't  is  worth  the  debt. 
Love's  glorjang  tribute — not  forlorn  resrrel . 

142 


THEODRIC. 


31 


I  charge  my  name  with  power  to  conjure  up 

Reflection's  bahny,  not  its  bitter  cup. 

My  pard'ning  angel,  at  tlie  gates  of  Heaven, 

Shall  look  not  more  regard  than  you  have  given 

To  me ;  and  our  life's  union  has  been  clad 

In  smiles  of  bliss  as  sweet  as  life  e'er  had. 

Shall  gloom  be  from  such  bright  remembrance  cast ; 

Shall  bitterness  outflow  from  sweetness  past  ? 

No  I  imaged  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  breast, 

There  let  me  smile,  amidst  high  thoughts  at  rest  ; 

And  let  contentment  on  your  spirit  shine, 

As  if  its  peace  were  still  a  part  of  mine  : 

For  if  you  war  not  proudly  \\-ith  your  pain, 

For  you  I  shall  have  worse  than  lived  in  vain. 

But  I  conjure  your  manliness  to  bear 

My  loss  with  noble  spirit — not  despair : 

I  ask  you  by  oiu*  love  to  promise  this. 

And  kiss  these  words,  where  I  have  left  a  kiss — 

Tiie  latest  from  ray  Uving  lips  for  yours." — 

Words  that  will  solace  him  while  life  endures : 
For  though  his  spirit  from  affliction's  surge 
Could  ne"er  to  life,  as  life  had  been,  emerge, 
Yet  still  that  mind  whose  harmony  elate 
Rang  sweetness,  ev'n  beneath  the  crush  of  fate, — 
That  mind  hi  whose  regard  all  things  were  placed 
In  views  that  soften'd  them,  or  lights  that  graced. 
That  soul's  example  could  not  but  dispense 
A  portion  of  its  own  bless'd  influence ; 
Invoking  liim  to  peace,  and  that  self-sway 
Which  Fortune  cannot  give,  nor  take  away: 
And  though  he  mourn'd  her  long,  'twas  with  such 

woe, 
As  if  her  spirit  watch'd  liim  still  below. 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  26,  col.  1. 
That  gave  the  glacier  top3  their  richest  glow 
The  sight  of  the  glaciers  of  Switzerland,  I  ara  told, 
has  often  disappointed  travellers  who  had  perused 
the  accounts  of  their  splendor  and  sublimity  given 
by  Bourrit  and  other  describers  of  Swiss  scenery. 
Possibly  Bourrit,  who  had  spent  his  life  in  an  en- 
amoured familiarity  with  the  beauties  of  Nature  in 
Switzerland,  may  have  leaned  to  the  romantic  side 
of  description.     One  can  pardon  a  man  for  a  sort  of 
idolatr}^  of  those  imposuig  objects  of  Nature  which 
heighten  our  ideas  of  the  bounty  of  Nature  or  Provi- 
dence, when  we  reflect  that  the  glaciers — those  seas 
of  ice — are  not  only  sublime,  but  useful :  they  are 
the  inexhaustible  reservoirs  which  supply  the  prin- 
j  cipal  rivers  of  Europe  ;  and  their  annual  melting  is 
in  proportion  to  the  summer  heat  which  dries  up 
those  rivers  and  makes  them  need  that  supply. 
[       That  the  picturesque   grandeur  of  the   glaciers 
should  sometimes  disappoint  the  traveller,  will  not 
[  seem  surprising  to  any  one  who  has  been  much  in  a 
I  mountainous  country,  and  recollects  that  the  beauty 
}  of  Nature  in  such  countries  is  not  only  variable,  but 
!  capriciously  dependent  on  the  weather  and  sunshine. 
I  There  are  about  four  hundred  different  glaciers,^  ac- 
i  . _ 

I  *■  Occupying,  if  taken  together,  a  surface  of  130  square  leagues. 


cording  to  the  computation  of  M.  Bourrit,  between 
Mont  Blanc  and  the  frontiers  of  the  Tyrol.  The  full 
eflTect  of  the  most  lofty  and  picturesque  of  them  can, 
of  course,  only  be  produced  by  the  richest  and  warm- 
est light  of  the  atmosphere  ;  and  the  very  heat  wliich 
illuminates  them  must  have  a  changing  influence  on 
many  of  their  appearances.  I  imagine  it  is  owing  to 
this  circumstance,  namely,  the  casualty  and  change- 
ableness  of  the  appearance  of  some  of  the  glaciers, 
that  the  impressions  made  by  them  on  the  minds  of 
other  and  more  transient  travellers  have  been  less 
enchanting  than  those  described  by  M.  Bourrit.  On 
one  occasion  M.  Bourrit  seems  even  to  speak  of  a 
past  phenomenon,  and  certainly  one  which  no  other 
spectator  attests  in  the  same  terms,  when  he  says, 
that  there  once  existed  between  the  Kandel  Steig 
and  Lauterbrun,  "  a  passage  amidst  singular  glaciers, 
sometimes  resembling  magical  towns  of  ice,  with 
pilasters,  pyramids,  columns,  and  obelisks,  reflecting 
to  the  sun  the  most  brilliant  hues  of  the  finest  gems." 
— M.  Bourrit's  description  of  the  Glacier  of  the 
Rhone  is  quite  enchanting: — "To  form  an  idea," 
he  says,  "of  this  superb  spectacle,  figure  in  your 
mind  a  scaffolding  of  transparent  ice,  filling  a  space 
of  two  miles,  rising  to  the  clouds,  and  darting  flashes 
of  light  like  the  sun.  Nor  were  the  several  parts 
less  magnificent  and  surprising.  One  might  see,  as 
it  were,  the  streets  and  buildings  of  a  city,  erected 
in  the  form  of  an  amphitheatre,  and  embellished  with 
pieces  of  water,  cascades,  and  torrents.  The  effects 
were  as  prodigious  as  the  immensity  and  the  height: 
the  most  beautiful  azure — the  most  splendid  white — 
the  regular  appearance  of  a  thousand  pyramids  of 
ice,  are  more  easy  to  be  imagined  than  described." — 
Bourrit,  iii,  163. 

Note  2,  page  26,  col.  1. 
From  heights  browsed  by  the  bounding  bouquetin. 
Laborde,  in  his  "  Tableau  de  la  Suisse,"  gives  a 
curious  account  of  this  animal,  the  wild  sharp  cry 
and  elastic  movements  of  which  must  heighten  the 
picturesque  appearance  of  its  haunts. — "  Nature," 
savs  Laborde,  "  has  destined  it  to  mountains  covered 
with  snow:  if  it  is  not  exposed  to  keen  cold,  it  be- 
comes blind.  Its  agility  in  leaping  much  surpasses 
that  of  the  chamois,  and  would  appear  incredible  to 
those  who  have  not  seen  it.  There  is  not  a  moun- 
tain so  high  or  steep  to  which  it  will  not  trust  itself, 
provided  it  has  room  to  place  its  feet;  it  can  scramble 
along  the  highest  wall,  if  its  surface  be  rugged." 

Note  3,  page  26,  col.  1. 
Enamell'd  moss. 
The  moss  of  Switzerland,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
Tyrol,  is  remarkable  for  a  bright  smoothness  approach- 
ing to  the  appearance  of  enamel. 

Note  4,  page  27,  col.  2. 
How  dear  seem'd  ev'n  the  waste  and  wild  Schreck-hom. 
The  Schreck-horn  means,  in  German,  the  Peak  of 
Terror. 

Note  5,  page  27,  col.  2. 

Blindfold  his  native  hills  he  could  have  known. 

I  have  here  availed  myself  of  a  striking  expression 

of  the  Emperor  Napoleon  respecting  his  recollections 

of  Corsica,  which  is  recorded  in  Las  Cases's  History 

of  the  Emperor's  Abode  at  St.  Helena. 

143 


iittii^crUancou!^  JJonui^* 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD; 

OR,  THE  "FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING. 

I. 

Oh  !  once  the  harp  of  Innisfail  ■ 

Was  strung  full  high  to  notes  of  gladness ; 

But  yet  it  often  told  a  tale 

Of  more  prevailing  sadness. 

Sad  was  the  note,  and  wild  its  fall. 

As  winds  that  moan  at  night  forlorn 

Along  the  isles  of  Fion-Gall, 

When,  for  O'Connor's  child  to  mourn, 

The  harper  told,  how  lone,  how  far 

From  any  mansion's  twinkling  star, 

From' any  path  of  social  men, 

Or  voice,  but  from  the  fox's  den, 

The  lady  in  the  desert  dwelt ; 

And  yet  no  wrongs,  nor  fear  she  felt : 

Say,  why  should  dwell  in  place  so  wild, 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 

II. 

Sweet  lady !  she  no  more  inspires 

Green  Erin's  hearts  with  beauty's  power, 

As,  in  the  palace  of  her  sires, 

She  bloom'd  a  peerless  flower. 

Gone  from  her  hand  and  bosom,  gone. 

The  royal  brooch,  the  jewell'd  ring, 

That  o'er  her  dazzling  wliiteness  shone, 

Like  dews  on  lilies  of  the  Spring. 

Yet  why,  though  fall'n  her  brother's  kerne,^ 

Beneath  De  Bourgo's  battle  stern. 

While  yet,  in  Leinster  unexplored. 

Her  friends  survive  the  English  sword; 

■\VTiy  lingers  she  from  Erin's  host, 

So  far  on  Galway's  shipwreck'd  coast? 

Why  wanders  she  a  huntress  wild — 

O'Connor's  pale  and  lovely  child  ? 

III. 

And,  fix'd  on  empty  space,  why  burn 
Her  eyes  with  momentary  wildness  ; 
And  wherefore  do  they  then  return 
To  more  than  woman's  mildness  ? 
Dishevell'd  are  her  raven  locks ; 
On  Connocht  Moran's  name  she  calls ; 
And  oft  amidst  the  lonely  rocks 
She  sings  sweet  madrigals. 
Placed  in  the  foxglove  and  the  moss, 
Behold  a  parted  warrior's  cross ! 
That  is  the  spot  where,  evermore, 
The  lady,  at  her  shieling'  door. 
Enjoys  that,  in  communion  sweet. 
The  li\-ing  and  the  dead  can  meet ; 
For,  lo!  to  lovelorn  fantasy, 
The  hero  of  her  heart  is  nigh. 


1  Innisfail,  the  ancient  name  of  Ireland. 

2  Kerne,  the  plural  of  Kern,  an  Irisli  foot-soldier.  In  this 
tense  the  word  is  used  by  Shakspeare.  Gainsford,  in  his  Glorys 
of  England,  says,  "  They  (the  Irish)  are  desperate  in  revenge, 
and  their  kerne  think  no  man  dead  until  his  head  be  off." 

3  Shieling,  a  rude  cabin  or  hut. 


IV. 

Bright  as  the  bow  that  spans  the  storm 

In  Erin's  yellow  vesture  clad,' 

A  son  of  light — a  lovely  forri. 

He  comes  and  makes  her  glad  : 

Now  on  the  gra.ss-green  turf  he  sits, 

His  tassell'd  horn  beside  him  laid ; 

Now  o'er  the  hills  in  chase  he  flits, 

The  hunter  and  the  deer  a  shade ! 

Sweet  mourner !  those  are  shadows  vain, 

That  cross  the  twilight  of  her  brain ; 

Yet  she  will  tell  you,  she  is  blest. 

Of  Connocht  Moran's  tomb  possess'd, 

More  richly  than  in  Aghrim's  bovver, 

When  bards  high  praised  her  beauty's  power. 

And  kiieeling  pages  offer'd  up 

The  morat  -  in  a  golden  cup. 


"  A  hero's  bride  !  this  desert  bower, 

It  ill  befits  thy  gentle  breeding : 

And  wherefore  dost  thou  love  this  flower 

To  call  '  My  love  lies  bleeding  ? ' 

This  purple  flower  my  tears  have  nursed- 

A  hero's  blood  supplied  its  bloom : 

I  love  it,  for  it  was  the  first 

That  grew  on  Connocht  Moran's  tomb. 

Oh  I  hearken,  stranger,  to  my  voice ! 

This  desert  mansion  is  my  choice ! 

And  blest,  though  fatal,  be  the  star 

That  led  me  to  its  wilds  afar: 

For  here  these  pathless  mountains  free 

Gave  shelter  to  my  love  and  me ; 

And  every  rock  and  every  stone 

Bare  witness  that  he  was  my  own. 

VL 

"  O'Connor's  child,  I  was  the  bud 

Of  Erin's  royal  tree  of  glory ; 

But  woe  to  them  that  wrapt  in  blood 

The  tissue  of  my  story ! 

Still,  as  I  clasp  my  burning  brain, 

A  death-scene  rushes  on  my  sight ; 

It  rises  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

The  bloody  feud — the  fatal  night. 

When  chafing  Connocht  Moran's  scorn, 

They  call'd  my  hero  basely  born : 

And  bade  him  choose  a  meaner  bride 

Than  from  O'Connor's  house  of  pride. 

Their  tribe,  they  said,  their  high  degree, 

Was  sung  in  Tara's  psaltery ; ' 


1  Yellow,  dyed  from  saffron,  was  the  favorite  color  of  the  an 
cient  Irisli.  When  the  Irish  chieftains  came  to  make  terms  with 
(iueen  Elizabeth's  lord-lieutenant,  we  are  told  by  Sir  John 
Davis,  that  they  came  to  court  in  saffron-colored  uniforms. 

2  jMorat,  a  drink  made  of  the  juice  of  mulberry  mixed  with 
honey. 

3  The  pride  of  the  Irish  in  ancestry  was  so  great,  that  one  of 
the  O'Neals  being  told  that  Barrett  of  Castlemone  had  been  there 
only  400  years,  he  replied, — that  he  hated  the  clown  as  if  he  had 
come  there  but  yesterday. 

Tara  was  the  place  of  assemblage  and  feasting  of  the  petty 
princes  of  Ireland.  Very  splendid  and  fabulous  descriptions  ara 

144 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


33 


Witness  their  Eath's  victorious  brand,' 
And  Cathal  of  the  bloody  hand  ; 
Glory  (they  said)  and  power  and  honor 
Were  in  the  mansion  of  O'Connor : 
But  he,  my  loved  one,  bore  in  field 
A  meaner  crest  upon  his  shield. 

VIL 
"  Ah,  brothers  I  what  did  it  avail, 
That  fiercely  and  triumphantly 
Ye  fought  the  English  of  the  pale, 
And  stemm'd  De  Bourgo's  chivalry  ?  ^ 
And  what  was  it  to  love  and  me, 
That  barons  by  your  standard  rode  ; 
Or  beal-fires  ^  jfor  your  jubilee 
Upon  a  hundred  mountains  glow'd  ? 


4.iven  by  the  Irish  historians  of  the  pomp  and  luxury  of  those 
meetings.  Thepsaltery  of  Tarawas  the  grand  national  register 
of  Ireland.  The  grand  epoch  of  political  eminence  in  the  early 
history  of  the  Irish  is  the  reign  of  their  great  and  favorite  mon- 
arch, Ollain  Fodlah,  who  reigned,  according  to  Keating,  about 
950  years  before  the  Christian  era.  Under  him  was  instituted  the 
great  Fes  at  Tara,  which  it  is  pretended  was  a  triennial  conven- 
tion of  the  states,  or  a  parliament;  the  members  of  which  were 
the  Druids,  and  other  learned  men,  who  represented  the  people 
in  that  assembly.  Very  minute  accounts  are  given  by  Irish  an- 
nalists of  the  magnificence  and  order  of  these  entertainments  : 
from  which,  if  credible,  we  might  collect  the  earliest  traces  of 
heraldry  that  occur  in  history.  To  preserve  order  and  regularity 
in  the  great  number  and  variety  of  the  members  who  melon  such 
occasions,  the  Irish  historians  inform  us,  that  when  the  banquet 
was  ready  to  be  served  up,  the  shield-bearers  of  the  princes,  and 
oth>3r  members  of  the  convention,  delivered  in  their  shields  and 
targets,  w^hich  were  readily  distinguished  by  the  coats  of  arms 
emblazoned  upon  them.  These  were  arranged  by  the  grand 
marshal  and  principal  herald,  and  hung  upon  the  walls  on  the 
right  side  of  the  table:  and,  upon  entering  the  apartments,  each 
member  took  his  seat  under  his  respective  shield  or  target,  with- 
out the  slightest  disturbance.  The  concluding  days  of  the  meet- 
ing, it  is  allowed  by  the  Irish  antiquaries,  were  spent  in  very 
fiee  excess  of  conviviality  ;  but  the  first  six,  they  say,  were  de- 
voted to  the  examination  and  settlement  of  the  annals  of  the 
kingdom.  These  were  publicly  rehearsed.  When  they  had 
passed  the  approbation  of  the  assembly,  they  were  transcribed 
into  the  authentic  chronicles  of  the  nation,  which  was  called 
the  Resister,  or  Psalter  of  Tara. 

Col.  Vallancey  gives  a  translation  of  an  old  Irish  fragment, 
found  in  Trinity-college,  Dublin,  in  which  the  palace  of  the 
above  assembly  is  thus  described  as  it  existed  in  the  reign  of 
Cormac: — 

"  In  the  reign  of  Cormac,  the  palace  of  Tara  was  nine  hun- 
dred feet  square;  the  diameter  of  the  surrounding  rath,  seven 
dice  or  casts  of  a  dart ;  it  contained  one  hundred  and  fifty  apart- 
ments ;  one  hundred  and  fifty  dormitories,  or  sleeping-rooms 
for  guards,  and  sixty  men  in  each  :  the  height  was  twenty-seven 
.cubits;  there  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  common  drinking- 
horns,  twelve  doors,  and  one  thousand  guests  daily,  besides 
princes,  orators,  men  of  science,  engravers  of  gold  and  silver, 
carvers,  modelers,  and  nobles.  The  Irish  description  of  the  ban- 
queting-hall  is  thus  translated :  twelve  stalls  or  divisions  in 
each  wing  ;  sixteen  attendants  on  each  side,  and  two  to  each 
table;  one  hundred  guests  in  all." 

1  Vide  infra. 

2  The  house  of  O'Connor  had  a  right  to  boast  of  their  victo- 
ries over  the  English.  It  was  a  chief  of  the  O'Connor  race  who 
gave  a  check  to  the  English  champion,  De  Courcy,  so  famous 
for  his  personal  strength,  and  for  cleaving  a  helmet  at  one  blow 
of  his  sword,  in  the  presence  of  the  kings  of  France  and  Eng- 
land, when  the  French  champion  declined  the  combat  with 
him.  Though  ultimately  conquered  by  the  English  under  De 
Bourgo,  the  O'Connors  had  also  humbled  the  pride  of  that 
name  on  a  memorable  occasion :  viz.  when  Walter  De  Bourso, 
an  ancestor  of  that  De  Bourgo  who  won  the  battle  of  Athun- 
ree,  had  become  so  insolent  as  to  make  excessive  demands  upon 
the  territories  of  Connaught,  and  to  bid  defiance  to  all  the  rights 
and  properties  reserved  by  the  Irish  chiefs,  Aeth  O'Connor,  a 
near  descendant  of  the  famous  Cathal,  surnamed  of  the  bloody 
hand,  rose  against  the  usurper,  and  defeated  the  English  so  se- 
verely, that  their  general  died  of  chagrin  after  the  battle. 

3  The  month  of  May  is  to  this  day  called  Mi  Beal  tiennie,  i.  e. 

]9  N 


\Vhai  though  the  lords  of  tower  and  dome 
From  Shannon  to  the  JVorth  Sea  foam. — 
Thought  ye  your  iron  hands  of  pride 
Could  break  the  knot  ihat  love  had  tied! 
No : — let  the  eagle  change  his  plume, 
The  leaf  its  hue,  the  Hower  its  bloom ; 
But  ties  around  this  heart  were  spun 
That  could  not,  woidd  not,  be  undone! 

VIII. 

"  At  bleating  of  the  wild  watch-fold. 
Thus  sang  my  love — '  Oh  !  come  with  me 
Our  bark  is  on  the  lake,  behold 
Our  steeds  are  fasten'd  to  the  tree. 
Come  far  from  Castle-Connor's  clans — 
Come  with  thy  belted  forestere, 
And  I,  beside  the  lake  of  swans, 
Shall  hunt  for  thee  the  fallow-deer  ; 
And  build  thy  hut.  and  bring  thee  home 
The  wild-fowl  and  the  honey-comb  ; 
And  berries  from  the  wood  provide, 
And  play  my  clarshech '  by  thy  side. 
Then  come,  my  love  ! ' — How  could  I  stay  ? 
Our  nimble  stag-hounds  track'd  the  way, 
And  I  pursued,  by  moonless  skies, 
The  light  of  Connocht  Moran's  eyes. 

IX. 

"  And  fast  and  far,  before  the  star 
Of  day-spring,  rush'd  we  through  the  glade. 
And  saw  at  dav\Ti  the  lofty  baAVTi^ 
Of  Castle-Connor  fade. 
Sweet  was  to  us  the  hermitage 
Of  this  unplow'd,  untrodden  shore ; 
Like  birds  all  joyous  from  the  cage. 
For  man's  neglect  we  loved  it  more. 
And  well  he  knew,  my  huntsman  dear, 
To  search  the  game  with  hawk  and  spear  ; 
\Miile  I,  his  evening  food  to  dress. 
Would  sing  to  him  in  happiness. 
But,  oh,  that  midnight  of  despair ! 
When  I  was  doom'd  to  rend  my  hair  : 
The  night,  to  me,  of  shrieking  sorrow! 
The  night  to  him,  that  had  no  morrow ! 


"  When  all  was  hush'd,  at  even-tide 
I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle : 
'  Be  hush'd  ! '  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 
'  'T  is  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle.' 


the  month  of  Beal's  fire,  in  the  original  language  of  Ireland,  and 
hence  I  believe  the  name  of  the  Beltan  festival  in  the  Highlands. 
These  fires  were  lighted  on  the  summits  of  mountains  (the  Irish 
antiquaries  sa3^)  in  honor  of  the  sun  ;  and  are  supposed,  by  those 
conjecturing  gentlemen,  to  prove  the  origin  of  the  Irish  from 
some  nation  who  worshipped  Baal  or  Belus.  Many  hills  in  Ire- 
land still  retain  the  name  of  Cncc  Greine,  i.  e.  the  hill  of  the 
sun  ;  and  on  all  are  to  be  seen  the  ruins  of  druidical  altars. 

1  The  clarshech,  or  harp,  tha  principal  musical  instrument  of 
the  Hibernian  bards,  does  not  appear  to  be  of  Irish  origin,  norin- 
digenous  to  any  of  the  British  islands.  The  Britons  undoubtedly 
were  not  acquainted  with  it  during  the  residence  of  the  Romans 
in  their  country,  as  on  all  their  coins,  on  which  musical  instru 
ments  are  represented,  we  see  only  the  Roman  lyre,  and  not 
the  British  teylin,  or  harp. 

2  Bawn,  from  the  Teutonic  Bawen — to  construct  and  secure 
with  branches  of  frees,  was  so  called  'oecause  the  primitive 
Celtic  fortification  was  made  by  digging  a  ditch,  throwing  up  a 
rampart,  and  on  the  latter  fixing  stakes,  which  were  interlaced 
with  boughs  of  trees.  This  wprd  is  used  by  Spenser ;  but  it  is 
inaccurately  called  by  Mr.  Todd,  his  annotalfr,  an  eminence 

145 


34 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Alas  !  't  was  not  the  eyrie's  sound  ; 

Their  bloody  bands  had  track'd  us  out ; 

Up-listening  starts  our  couchant  hound — 

And  hark !  again,  that  nearer  shout 

Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 

Sparc — spare  him — Brazil — Desmond  fierce ! 

In  vain — no  voice  the  adder  charms ; 

Their  weapons  cross'd  my  sheltering  arms . 

Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low — 

Another's,  and  another's ; 

And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow — 

Ah  me  !  it  was  a  brother's  ! 

Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 

Tlieir  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 

And  o'er  his  burial-turf  they  trod. 

And  I  beheld— Oh  God  !  Oh  God ! 

His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod ! 

XI. 
"  Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 
Alas!  my  warrior's  spirit  brave, 
Kor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla '  heard. 
Lamenting,  soothe  his  grave. 
Dragg'd  to  their  hated  mansion  back, 
How  long  in  thraldom's  grasp  I  lay 
I  knew  not,  for  my  soul  was  black, 
And  knew  no  change  of  night  or  day. 
One  night  of  horror  round  me  grew ; 
Or  if  I  saw%  or  felt,  or  knew, 
'T  was  but  when  those  grim  visages, 
The  angry  brothers  of  my  race. 
Glared  on  each  eye-ball's  aching  throb. 
And  check'd  my  bosom's  power  to  sob. 
Or  when  my  heart  with  pulses  drear. 
Beat  like  a  death-watch  to  my  ear. 

XII. 
"  But  Heaven,  at  last,  my  soul's  eclipse 
Did  w  ith  a  vision  bright  inspire  : 
I  woke,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
A  prophetess's  fire. 

Thrice  in  the  east  a  war-drum  beat — 
I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound. 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat. 
My  guilt}',  trembhng  brothers  round. 
Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came  ; 
For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 
Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries. 
And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 
The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 
Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay  ; 
That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look. 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 
J  gave, — that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

xni. 

"  And  go !  (I  cried)  the  combat  seek, 
Ye  h?arts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek, 
Go  I — and  return  no  more  I 
For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 
Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 
The  bsimer  with  victorious  hand. 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unroll'd. 


1  The  Irish  lamentation  for  the  dead. 


0  stranger  !  by  my  country's  loss ! 
And  by  my  love !  and  by  the  cross ! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  sever'd  nature's  yoke. 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood. 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood  ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given. 
To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven.' 

XIV. 
"  They  would  have  cross'd  themselves,  all  mute 
They  would  have  pray'd  to  burst  the  spell ; 
But  at  the  stamping  of  my  foot 
Each  hand  down  powerless  fell ! 
'  And  go  to  Athunree  ! '  ^  I  cried, 
'  High  lift  the  banner  of  your  pride ! 


1  If  the  wrath  which  I  have  ascribed  to  the  heroine  of  this  httlu 
piece  should  seem  to  exliibit  her  character  as  too  unnaturally 
stript  of  patriotic  and  domestic  affections,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
plead  the  authority  of  Corneille  in  the  representation  of  a  simi 
lar  passion:  I  allude  to  the  denunciation  of  Camille,  in  the  tra- 
gedy of  Horace.  When  Horace,  accompanied  by  a  soldier  bear- 
ing the  three  swords  of  the  Curiatii,  meets  his  sister,  and  invites 
her  to  congratulate  him  on  his  victory,  she  expresses  only  her 
grief,  which  he  attributes  at  first  only  to  her  feelings  lor  the  loss 
of  her  two  brothers;  but  when  she  bursts  fortii  into  reproaches 
against  him  as  the  murderer  of  her  lover,  the  last  of  the  Curiatii, 
he  exclaims: 

"  O  Ciel !  qui  vit  jamais  une  pareille  rage: 
Crois-tu  done  que  je  sois  insensible  k  I'outrage, 
Que  je  souffre  en  mon  sang  ce  morlel  deshonneur! 
Aime,  aime  cette  mort  qui  fait  notre  bonheur, 
Et  prefere  du  moins  au  souvenir  d'un  homme 
Ce  que  doit  ta  naissance  aux  interets  de  Rome." 
At  the  mention  of  Rome,  Camille  breaks  out  into  this  apes 
trophe : 

"  Rome,  I'unique  objet  de  mon  ressentiment ! 
Rome,  H  qui  vient  ton  bras  d'immoler  mon  amnnt ! 
Rome,  qui  t'a  vu  naitre  et  que  ton  cceur  adore  ! 
Rome,  enfin,  que  je  hais,  parce  qu'elle  t'honore  I 
Puissent  tons  ses  voisins,  ensemble  conjures, 
Sapper  ses  fondements  encore  mal  assures; 
Et,  si  ce  n'cst  assez  de  toute  I'ltalie, 
Que  rOrient,  contre  elle,  k  I'Occident  s'allie; 
Que  cent  peuples  unis,  des  bouts  de  I'univers 
Passent,  pour  la  detruire,  et  les  monts  et  les  mers  ; 
Qu'elle-memesur  soi  renverse  ses  muraiiles, 
Et  de  ses  propres  mains  dechire  ses  entrailles  ; 
Que  le  courroux  du  Ciel,  allume  par  mes  vceux, 
Fasse  pleuvoir  sur  elle  un  deluge  de  feux  ! 
Puisse-je  de  mes  yeux  y  voir  tomber  ce  foudre, 
Voir  ses  maisons  en  cendre,  et  tes  lauriers  en  poudre  ; 
Voir  le  dernier  Remain  a  son  dernier  soupir, 
Moi  seule  en  etre  cause,  et  mourir  de  plaisir !" 

2  In  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Second,  the  Irish  presented  to 
Pope  John  the  Twenty-Second  a  memorial  of  their  sut'erings 
under  the  English,  of  which  the  language  exhibits  all  the  .strength 
of  despair. — "  Ever  since  the  English  (say  they)  first  appeared 
upon  our  coasts,  they  entered  our  territories  under  a  certain 
specious  pretence  of  charity,  and  external  hypocritical  show  of 
religion,  endeavoring  at  the  same  time,  by  every  artifice  mali'^e 
could  suggest,  to  extirpate  us  root  and  branch,  and  withe  • 
other  right  than  that  of  the  strongest;  they  have  so  i:; 
ceeded  Sybase  fraudulence  and  cunning,  that  they  have  !■ 

us  to  quit  our  fair  and  ample  habitations  and  inheritance.^,  ■■. 
to  take  refuge  like  wild  beasts  in  the  mountains,  the  wooos.  ;  1 
the  morasses  of  the  country; — nor  even  can  the  caveris  ! 
dens  protect  us  against  their  insatiable  avarice.  They  ]<■  > 
us  even  into  these  frightful  abodes ;  endeavoring  to  rii.-p  : 
us  of  the  wild  uncultivated  rocks,  and  arrogate  to  then- 
the  property  of  every  place  on  which  we  can  stamp  the  i.-  .- 
of  our  feet." 

The  greatest  effort  ever  made  by  the  ancient  Irish  to  rr 
their  native  independence,  was  made  at  the  time  when 
called  over  the  brother  of  Robert  Bruce  from  Scothiml.— " 
liam  de  Bourgo,  brother  to  the  Earl  of  Ulster,  and  Rich.' 
Bermingham,  were  sent  against  the  main  body  of  the  : 
insnrgent.s,  who  were  headed  rather  than  commanded  by  I' 
O'Connor.  The  important  battle,  which  decided  the  subj. 

146 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


35 


But  know  that  where  its  sheet  unrolls, 
The  weight  of  blood  is  on  your  souls ! 
Go  where  the  havoc  of  your  kerne 
Shall  float  as  liigh  as  mountain  fern ! 
Men  shall  no  more  your  mansion  know ; 
The  nettles  on  your  hearth  sliall  grow ! 
Dead,  as  the  green  obUvious  flood 
That  mantles  by  your  walls,  shall  be 
The  glory  of  O'Connor's  blood ! 
Away  !  away  to  Aihunree  ! 
Where,  downward  when  the  sun  shall  fall, 
The  raven's  wing  shall  be  your  pail ! 
And  not  a  vassal  shall  unlace 
The  vizor  from  your  dying  face  I ' 

XV. 
"A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 
Suspended  till  my  cm-se  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  pass'd  iliese  lips  of  tbam, 
Peal'd  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 
The  angry  parting  brothei-s  threw : 
But  now,  behold!  like  cataracts, 
Come  down  the  hills  in  view 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans ; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 
Were  marching  to  their  doom : 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  toss'd, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  cross'd, 
And  all  again  was  gloom ! 

XVI. 
"  Stranger !  I  fled  the  home  of  grief, 
At  Connocht  ^Moran's  tomb  to  fall ; 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  chief, 
His  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wall. 
And  took  it  down,  and  vow'd  to  rove 
This  desert  place  a  huntress  bold  ; 
Nor  would  I  change  my  buried  love 
For  any  heart  of  li\-ing  mould. 
No !  for  I  am  a  hero's  child  ; 
I  '11  hunt  my  quarry  in  the  wild ; 
And  still  my  home  this  mansion  make, 
Of  all  imheeded  and  unheeding, 
And  cherish,  for  my  warrior's  sake — 
'  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding.'  " 


LOCmEL'S  WARNING.' 

WIZARD— LOCHIEL. 
AVIZARD. 

LocHiEL,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day 

When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array! 


For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight. 
And  the  clans  of  CuUoden  are  scatter'd  in  tight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown; 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  tlie  slain. 
And  their  hoof-bcaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark!  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  oh  Glenullin!  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning :  no  rider  is  there ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 


of  Ireland,  took  place  on  the  10th  of  August,  1313.  It  was  tlie 
bloodiest  that  ever  was  fought  between  the  two  nations,  and  con- 
tinued throughout  the  whole  day,  from  the  risijig  to  the  setting 
sun.  The  Irish  fought  with  inferior  discipline,  but  with  great 
enthusiasm.  They  lost  ten  thousand  men,  among  whom  were 
twenty-nine  chiefs  of  Connaught.  Tradition  states,  that  after 
this  terrible  day,  the  O'Connor  family,  like  the  Fabian,  were  so 
nearly  exterminated,  that  throughout  all  Connaught  not  one  of 
the  name  remained,  except  Felim's  brother,  who  was  capable 
of  bearing  arms. 

1  Lochiel,  the  chief  of  the  warlike  clan  of  the  Camerons,  and 
descended  from  ancestors  distinguished  in  their  narrow  sphere 
for  great  personal  prowess,  was  a  man  worthy  of  a  better  cause  ! 
and  fate  than  that  in  which  he  embarked,  the  enterprise  of  the  i 
Stuarts  in  1745.  His  memory  is  still  fondly  cherished  among  the 
Highlanders,  by  the  appellation  of  the  "'gentle  Lochiel,''  for  | 
be  was  famed  for  his  social  virtues  as  much  as  hie  martial  and  i 


magnanimous  (though  mistaken)  loyalty.  His  influence  was  so 
important  among  the  Highland  chiefs,  that  it  depended  on  hia 
joining  with  his  clan  whether  Uie  standard  of  Charles  should  be 
raised  or  not  in  1745.  Lochiel  was  himself  too  wise  a  man  to 
be  blind  to  the  consequences  of  so  hopeless  an  enterprise, 
hut  his  sensibility  to  the  point  of  honor  overruled  his  wisdom. 
Charles  appealed  to  his  loyalty,  and  he  could  not  brook  the  re- 
proaches of  his  Prince.  When  Charles  landed  at  Borrodale, 
Lochiel  went  to  meet  him,  but,  on  his  way,  called  at  his  bro- 
ther's house  (Cameron  of  Fas.=<afern),  and  told  him  on  what 
errand  he  was  going;  adding,  however,  that  he  meant  to  dis- 
suade the  Prince  from  his  enterprise.  Fassafern  advised  him  in 
that  case  to  communicate  his  mind  by  letter  to  Charles.  "No," 
said  Lochiel,  "I  think  it  due  to  my  Prince  to  give  him  my  reasons 
in  person  for  refusing  to  join  his  standard." — "Brotlier,"  re- 
plied Fassafern,  "  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself: 
if  the  prince  once  sf^s  his  eyes  on  you,  he  will  make  you  do 
what  he  pleases."  The  interview  accordingly  took  place:  and 
Lochiel,  with  many  arguments,  but  in  vain,  pressed  the  Pre- 
tender to  return  to  France,  and  reserve  himself  and  his  friends 
for  a  more  favorable  occasion,  as  he  had  come,  by  his  own  ac- 
knowledgment, without  arms,  or  money,  or  adherents :  or,  at 
all  events,  to  remain  concealed  till  his  friends  should  meet  and 
deliberate  what  was  best  to  be  done.  Charles,  whose  mind  was 
wound  up  to  the  utmost  impatience,  paid  no  regard  to  this 
proposal,  but  answered,  "that  he  was  determined  to  put  all  to 
the  hazard."  "  In  a  few  days,"  said  he,  "  I  will  erect  the  royal 
standard,  and  proclaim  to  tJie  people  of  Great  Britain,  that 
Charles  Stuart  is  come  over  to  claim  the  crown  of  his  ancestors, 
and  to  win  it,  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Lochiel,  who  my  father 
has  often  told  me  was  our  tirmest  friend,  may  stay  at  home, 
and  leain  from  the  newspapers  the  fate  of  his  Prince." — "No," 
said  Lochiel,  "I  will  share  the  fate  of  my  Prince,  and  so  shall 
every  man  over  whom  nature  or  fortune  hath  given  me  any 
power." 

The  other  chieftains  who  followed  Charles  embraced  his  cause 
with  no  better  hop^-s.  It  engages  our  sympathy  more  strongly 
in  their  behalf,  that  no  motive,  but  their  fear  to  be  reproached 
with  cowardice  or  disloyalty,  impelled  them  to  the  hopeless  ad- 
venture. Of  this  we  have  an  example  in  die  interview  of  Prince 
Charles  with  Clanronald,  anotlier  leading  chieftain  in  the  rebci 
array. 

"Charles,"  says  Home,  "almost  reduced  to  despair,  in  his 
discourse  with  Boisdale,  addressed  the  two  Highlanders  with 
great  emotion,  and,  summing  up  his  arguments  for  taking  arms, 
conjured  them  to  assist  their  Prince,  their  countryman,  in  his 
utmost  need.  Clanronald  and  his  friend,  though  well  inclined  to 
the  cause,  positively  refused,  and  told  him  that  to  take  up  arms 
vvitliout  concert  or  support  was  to  puU  down  certain  ruin  on 
their  own  heads.  Charles  persisted,  argued,  and  implored. 
During  this  conversation  (they  were  on  shipboard)  the  parties 
walked  backwards  and  forwards  on  the  deck;  a  Highlander 
stood  near  them,  armed  at  all  points,  as  was  then  tlie  fashion 
of  his  country.  He  was  a  younger  brother  of  Kinloch  Moidart, 
and  had  come  off  to  the  ship  to  inquire  for  news,  not  knowing 
who  was  aboard.  When  he  gathered  from  their  discourse  that  • 
the  stranger  was  the  Prince  of  Wales;  when  he  heard  his  chief 
and  his  brother  refuse  to  take  arms  with  their  Prince;  his  color 
went  and  came;  his  eyes  sparkled,  he  shifted  his  place,  and 
grasped  his  sword.  Charles  observed  his  demeanor,  and  turn- 
ing briskly  to  him,  called  out.  'Wi'.i  you  as.si.-it  me?' — 'I  will, 
I  will,'  said  Ronald ;  '  though  no  other  man  in  the  Highlands 
should  draw  a  sword,  I  am  ready  to  die  for  you  V  Charles,  witli 
a  profusion  of  thanks  to  his  champion,  said,  Le  wished  all  the 
Highlanders  were  like  him.  Without  farther  deliberation,  tha 
two  Macdonalds  declared  that  they  would  also  join,  and  use 
their  utmost  endeavors  to  engage  tlieir  countrymen  to  take 
arms." — Home's  Hist.  RebcUiun,  p.  40. 

147 


36 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Weep,  Albin  !  •  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
Oh  weep!  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  : 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  CuUoden  shall  wave, 
Culloden !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

LOCHIEL. 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer! 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear,  * 

Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

WIZARD. 

Ha!  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn! 
Say,  rush  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth. 
From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the  north? 
Lo !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah !  home  let  him  speed, — for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?  Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
'T  is  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel !  the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banner?  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  lo  blast  and  to  burn ; 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely,  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famisliing  brood. 

LOCHIEL. 

False  Wizard,  avaunt !  1  have  marshall'd  my  clan, 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one ! 
They  are  true  tothelastof  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock! 
Let  him  da.sh  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud. 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day ! 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal. 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 
'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  blood-hounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive 

king. 
Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath. 
Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path!^ 
Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my 

sight  ; 
Rise,  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 
'Tis  finish'd.  Their  thunders  are  hush'd  on  the  moors: 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?  Where  ? 
For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banish'd,  forlorn, 
Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn? 
Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near ; 
The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling  :  oh  !  Mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 


1  The  Gaelic  appellation  of  Scotland,  more  particularly  the 
Highlands. 

2  The  lines  allude  to  the  many  hardships  of  the  royal  sufferer. 


Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims, 
Accursed  be  tlie  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet. 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  lo  beat. 
With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 

LOCHIEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter  1  I  trust  not  the  tale  : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Though  my  perishing  ranlis  should  be  strew'd  in  their 

gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heap'd  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains. 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low. 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe! 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame.> 


1  An  account  of  the  second  sight,  in  Irish  called  Taish,  is 
thus  given  in  Martin's  Description  of  the  Western  Isles  of  Scot- 
land. "The  second  sight  ia  a  singular  fiiculty  of  seeing  an 
otherwise  invisible  object,  without  any  previous  means  used 
by  the  person  who  sees  it  for  that  end.  The  vision  makes  such 
a  lively  impression  upon  the  seers,  that  they  neither  see  nor  i 
think  of  anything  else  except  the  vision  as  long  as  it  continues ; 
and  then  they  appear  pensive  or  jovial  according  to  the  object  ' 
which  was  represented  to  them. 

"At  the  sight  of  a  vision  the  eyelidsof  the  person  are  erected, 
and  the  eyes  continue  staring  until  the  object  vanish.  This  ia 
obvious  to  others  who  arc  standing  by  when  the  persons  happen 
to  see  a  vision  ;  and  occurred  more  than  once  to  my  own 
observation,  and  to  others  that  were  with  me. 

"  There  is  one  in  Skie,  of  whom  his  acquaintance  observed, 
that  when  he  sees  a  vision  the  inner  parts  of  his  eyelids  turn  so 
far  upwards,  that,  after  the  object  disappears,  he  must  draw 
them  down  with  his  fintrers,  and  sometnnes  employs  others  to  I 
draw  them  down,  which  he  finds  to  be  much  the  easier  way. 

"This  faculty  of  the  second  sight  does  not  lineally  descend 
in  a  family,  as  some  have  imagined  ;  for  I  know  several  parents 
who  are  endowed  with  it,  and  their  children  are  not;  and  vice 
versa.  Neitlier  is  it  acquired  by  any  previous  compact.  And  i 
after  strict  inquiry,  1  could  never  learn  from  any  among  them, 
that  this  faculty  was  communicable  to  any  whaUoever.  The  seer 
knows  neither  the  object,  time,  nor  place  of  a  visi-on,  before  it 
appears;  and  the  same  object  is  often  seen  by  difierent  persona  i 
living  at  a  considerable  distance  from  one  another.  The  true 
way  of  judging  as  to  the  time  and  circumstances  is  by  observa- 
tion :  for  several  persons  of  judgment  who  are  without  this 
faculty  are  more  capable  to  judge  of  the  design  of  a  vision  than 
a  novice  that  is  a  seer.  If  an  object  appear  in  the  day  or  night 
it  will  come  to  pass  sooner  or  later  accordingly. 

"If  an  object  is  seen  early  in  a  morning,  which  is  not  fre- 
quent, it  will  be  accomplished  in  a  few  hours  afterwards ;  if  at 
noon,  it  will  probably  be  accomplished  that  very  day  ;  if  in  the 
evening,  perhaps  that  night;  if  after  candles  be  lighted,  it  will 
be  accomplished  that  night:  the  latter  always  an  accomplish- 
ment by  weeks,  months,  and  sometimes  years,  according  to  the 
time  of  the  night  tlie  vision  is  seen. 

"  When  a  shroud  is  seen  about  one,  it  is  a  sure  prognostic  of 
death.  The  time  is  judged  according  to  the  height  of  it  about 
the  person  ;  for  if  it  is  not  seen  above  the  middle,  death  is  not 
to  be  expected  for  the  space  of  a  year,  and  perhaps  some  months 
longer :  and  as  it  is  frequently  seen  to  ascend  higher  towards 
the  head,  death  is  concluded  to  be  at  hand  within  a  few  days, 
if  not  hours,  as  daily  experience  confirms.  Examples  of  this 
kind  were  shown  me,  when  the  person  of  whom  the  observa- 
tions were  then  made  was  in  perfect  health. 

"  It  is  ordinary  with  them  to  see  houses,  gardens,  and  trees  in 
places  void  of  all  these,  and  this  in  process  of  time  is  wont  to 
be  accomplished :  as  at  Mogslot  in  the  Isle  of  Skie,  where  there 
were  but  a  few  sorry  low  houses  thatched  with  straw :  yet  in  a 
few  years  the  vision,  which  appeared  often,  was  accomplished 
by  the  building  of  several  good  houses  in  the  very  spot  repre- 
sented to  the  seers,  and  by  the  plantmg  of  orchards  there. 

"  To  see  a  spark  of  fire  is  a  forerunner  of  a  dead  child,  to  be 
seen  in  the  arms  of  those  persons  :  of  which  theie  are  several 
instances.  To  see  a  seat  empty  at  the  time  of  sitting  in  it,  is 
a  presage  of  that  person's  death  quickly  after  it. 

148 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


37 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crowm. 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold  determined  hand. 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. — 

Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine. 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  mom  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time. — 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"  Hearts  of  oak ! "    our  captains  cried ;  when 

each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

T^U  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; — 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  : — 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. — 


"When  a  novice,  or  one  that  has  lately  obtained  the  second 
sight,  sees  a  vision  in  the  night-time  without  doors,  and  comes 
near  a  fire,  he  presently  falls  into  a  swoon. 

"Some  find  themselves  as  it  were  in  a  crowd  of  people,  hav 
ing  a  corpse,  which  they  carry  along  with  ihem ;  and  after  such 
Tisions  the  seers  come  in  sweating,  and  describe  the  vision  that 
appeared.  If  there  be  any  of  their  acquaintance  among  them, 
they  give  an  account  of  their  names,  as  also  of  the  bearers;  but 
they  know  nothing  concerning  the  corpse." 

Horses  and  cows  (according  to  the  same  credulous  author) 
have  certainly  sometimes  the  same  faculty ;  and  he  endeavors  tr 
prove  it  by  the  signs  of  fear  which  the  animals  exhibit,  when 
second-sighted  persons  see  visions  in  the  same  place. 

"The  seers  (he  continues)  are  generally  illiterate  and  well 
meaning  people,  and  altogether  void  of  design  -.  nor  could  I  ever 
learn  that  any  of  them  ever  made  the  least  gain  by  it;  neither 
is  it  reputable  among  them  to  have  that  faculty.  Besides,  the 
people  of  the  Isles  are  not  so  credulous  as  to  believe  implicitly 
before  the  thing  predicted  is  accomplished  ;  but  when  it  is  ac- 
tually accomplished  afterwards,  it  is  not  in  their  power  to  deny 
it,  without  offering  violence  to  their  own  sense  and  reason.  Be- 
sides, if  the  seers  were  deceivers,  can  it  be  reasonable  to  imagine 
that  all  the  islanders  who  have  not  the  second  sight  should  com- 
bine together,  and  offer  violence  to  their  understandings  and 
senses,  to  enforce  themselves  to  belie**  a  lie  from  age  to  age  7 
There  are  several  persons  among  them  whose  title  and  educa- 
tion raise  them  above  the  suspicion  of  concurring  with  an  im- 
postor, merely  to  gratify  an  illiterate,  contemptible  set  of  per- 
sons; nor  can  reasonable  persons  believe  that  children,  horses, 
and  cows,  should  be  pre-engaged  in  a  combination  in  favor  of 
the  second  sight." — Martin's  Description  of  the  Western  hi 
ands  of  Scotland,  pp.  3. 11. 

N2 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave; 

"  Ye  are  brothers !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet. 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King." — 

Then  Denmark  blest  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day 

W^hile  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy.  Old  England,  raise ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
While  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar. 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep. 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep. 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died. 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou : ' 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heav'n  o'er  their  grave 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave ! 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLANT). 

A  N.WAL  ODE. 

Ye  mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas, 

Wliose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  laianch  agaui 

To  match  another  foe  I 

And  sweep  through  the  deep. 

While  the  stormy  tempests  blow  ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame. 

And  Ocean  was  their  grave ! 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell. 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow. 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

Wliile  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 


1  Captain  Riou,  justly  entitled  the  gallant  and  tlie  good,  b» 
Lord  Nelson,  when  he  wrote  home  his  dispatches. 

149 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  inarch  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak. 

She  quells  the  floods  below, — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  tempests  blow ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long. 

And  the  stormy  tempests  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn. 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean- warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  Hi. re, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  tc  bloTV. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

0\  Linden,  when  the  sun  ^vas  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  th'  untroaden  snow. 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night. 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade. 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd, 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  rush'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven. 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow, 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow. 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'T  is  mom,  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank,  and  fiery  Hun, 
Shout  in  their  sulph'rous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
"Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 
Wave,  Municii  I  all  thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry! 

Yew,  few,  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet. 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


GLENARA. 
O  HEARD  ye  yon  pibrach  sound  sad  in  the  gale. 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail? 
"^is  the  chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear^ 
And  her  sire,  and  the  people,  are  call'd  to  her  bier 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud  ; 
Her  kinsmen  thoy  follow'd,  but  mourn'd  not  aloud 
Their  plaids  all  tlieir  bosoms  were  folded  around : 
They  march'd  all  in  silence, — they  look'd  on  the 
ground. 

In  silence  they  reach'd  over  mountain  and  moor, 
To  a  heath,  where  the  oak-tree  grew  lonely  and  hoar, 
"  Now  here  let  us  place  the  grey  stone  of  her  cairn : 
Why  speak  ye  no  word?" — said  Glenara  the  stern. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  you !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse. 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your  brows?" 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain : — no  answer  is  made. 
But  each  mantle  unfolding  a  dagger  display'd. 

"I  dreamt  of  my  ladj',  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and  loud  ; 
"  And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coflin  did  seem : 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream ! " 

O!  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  w^een. 
\  When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was  si  f-n 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn, 
T  was  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn 

'  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief: 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem ; 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream ! " 

In  dust,  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground. 
And  the  desert  reveal'd  where  his  lady  was  found 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne, — 
Now  joy  to  the  house  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 


EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  Exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill : 
For  his  country  he  sigh'd,  when  at  twilight  repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion. 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger. 
The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee ; 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger — 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again,  in  the  green  sunny  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathere  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweel 
hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild-woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  th^jiumbers  of  Erin  go  bragh ! 


Erin,  my  country!  tnbugh  sad  and  forsaken, 
In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 

But,  alas !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken. 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more ! 

150 


]MISCELL.\NEOUS  POEMS. 


39 


Oh  cruel  fate !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of  peace — where  no  perils  can  chase  me? 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ' 
They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

Where  is  my  cabin  door,  fast  by  the  wild  wood  ? 

Sisters  and  sire  !  did  ye  weep  for  its  fall  ? 
Where  is  the  mother  that  look'd  on  my  childhood  ? 

And  where  is  the  bosom-friend,  dearer  than  all  ? 
Oh  I  my  sad  heart !  long  abandon'd  by  pleasure, 
Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure  ? 
Tears,  hke  the  rain-drop,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

Yet  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  "oosom  can  draw ; 

Erin  I  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing ! 
Land  of  my  forefathers !  Erin  go  bragh! 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields, — sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devo- 
tion,— 
Erin  mavournin — Erin  go  bragh ! ' 


LORD  ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER. 

A  cniEFTAix,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  I 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  pound, 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." — 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  'ra  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this  lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we  've  fled  together. 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
JNIy  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 
"  I  '11  go,  my  chief — I  'm  ready  .- 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright. 
But  for  your  winsome  lady: 

"  And  by  my  word  I  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarn,- ; 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I  '11  rov/  you  o'er  the  ferrj-." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water- wraith  was  shrieking; 2 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew-  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men. 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 


1  Irplan-1  my  darling, — Ireland  for  ever 

2  The  evil  spirit  of  the  waters. 


"  O  haste  thee,  haste  ! "  the  lady  cries. 
Though  tempests  round  us  gather; 

I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 
When,  oh !  too  strong  for  human  hand. 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing ; 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore : 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismay'd,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover  : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch'd  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back!  come  back  I"  he  cried,  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water  ; 
And  I  '11  forgive  your  Highland  chief. 

My  daughter  I — O  my  daughter !" — 


'T  was  vain :  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the 

Return  or  aid  preventing  : 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 


•hore, 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS 

Soul  of  the  Poet !  wheresoe'er, 
Reclaim'd  from  earth,  thy  genius  plume 
Her  wings  of  immortality : 
Suspend  thy  harp  in  happier  sphere, 
And  with  thine  influence  illume 
The  gladness  of  our  jubilee. 

And  fly,  like  fiends  from  secret  spell, 
Discord  and  strife  at  Burns's  name. 
Exorcised  by  his  memory  ; 
For  he  was  chief  of  bards  that  swell 
The  heart  with  songs  of  social  flame. 
And  high  delicious  revelry. 

And  Love's  own  strain  to  him  was  given. 

To  w^arble  all  its  ecstasies 

With  Pythian  words  unsought,  unwill'd, — 

Love,  the  surviving  gift  of  Heaven, 

The  choicest  sweet  of  Paradise, 

In  life's  else  bitter  cup  distill'd. 

\Vho  that  has  melted  o'er  his  lay 
To  Mary's  soul,  in  Heaven  above, 
But  pictured  sees,  in  fancy  strong, 
The  landscape  and  the  livelong  day 
That  smiled  upon  their  mutual  lo\e — 
Who  that  has  felt  forgets  the  song  ? 

Nor  skill'd  one  flame  alone  to  fan  : 
His  country's  hifrh-soul'd  peasantry 
"What  patriot-pride  he  taught! — how  much 
To  weigh  the  inborn  worth  of  man ' 
And  rustic  life  and  poverty 
Grow  beautiful  beneath  his  touch. 

151 


40 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS- 


Him,  in  his  clay-built  cot,'  the  muse 
Entranced,  and  show'd  him  all  the  forms 
Of  fairy  light  and  wizard  gloom 
(That  only  gifted  Poet  views), 
The  Genii  of  the  floods  and  storms, 
And  martial  shades  from  Glorj^'s  tomb. 

On  Bannock-field  what  thoughts  arouse 

The  Swain  whom  Burns's  song  inspires ! 

Beat  not  his  Caledonian  veins. 

As  o'er  the  heroic  turf  he  plows, 

With  all  the  spirit  of  his  sires, 

And  all  their  scorn  of  death  and  chains  ? 

And  see  the  Scottish  exile,  tann'd 

By  many  a  far  and  foreign  clime. 

Bend  o'er  his  homeborn  verse,  and  weep 

In  memory  of  his  native  land. 

With  love  that  scorns  the  lapse  of  time, 

And  ties  that  stretch  beyond  the  deep. 

Encamp'd  by  Indian  rivers  wild, 

The  soldier,  resting  on  his  arms, 

In  BuRN's's  carol  sweet  recalls 

The  scenes  that  blest  him  when  a  child. 

And  glows  and  gladdens  at  the  charms 

Of  Scotia's  woods  and  waterfalls. 

O  deem  not,  midst  this  worldly  strife. 
An  idle  art  the  Poet  brings  ; 
Let  high  Philosophy  control, 
And  sages  calm  the  stream  of  life, 
'T  is  he  refines  its  fountain-springs. 
The  nobler  passions  of  the  soul. 

It  is  the  muse  that  consecrates 
The  native  banner  of  the  brave, 
Unfurhng,  at  the  trumpet's  breath, 
Rose,  thistle,  harp ;  't  is  she  elates 
To  sw^eep  the  field  or  ride  the  wave, 
A  sunburst  in  the  storm  of  death. 

And  thou,  young  hero,  when  thy  pall 

Is  cross'd  with  mournful  sword  and  plume, 

When  public  grief  begins  to  fade, 

And  only  tears  of  kindred  fall, 

■Who  but  the  Bard  shall  dress  thy  tomb, 

And  greet  with  fame  thy  gallant  shade  ? 

Such  was  the  soldier — Bi'Rxs,  forgive 
That  sorrows  of  mine  own  intrude 
In  strains  to  thy  great  memory  due. 
In  verse  like  thine,  oh !  coulii  he  live, 
The  friend  I  mourn'd — the  brave,  the  good- 
Edward  that  died  at  Waterloo !  ^ 

Farewell,  high  chief  of  Scottish  song ! 
That  couldst  alternately  impart 
Wisdom  and  rapture  in  thy  page. 
And  brand  each  vice  with  satire  strong ; 
^^^lose  lines  are  mottoes  of  the  heart, 
WTiose  truths  electrify  the  sage. 


Farewell !  and  ne'er  may  En\y  dare 
To  wring  one  baneful  poison  drop 
From  the  crush'd  laurels  of  tliy  bust  • 
But  while  the  lark  sings  sweet  in  air^ 
Still  may  the  grateful  pilgrim  stop 
To  bless  the  spot  that  holds  thy  dust. 


1  Bums  was  bom  in  Clay-cottage,  which  his  father  had  built 
with  his  own  hands. 

2  Major  Edward  Hodee  of  the  7th  Hussars,  who  fell  at  the 
flead  of  his  s'juadron  in  the  attack  of  the  Polish  Lancers. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 
Our  bugles   sang   truce — for  the   night-cloud  had 
lour'd. 
And  the  sentinel  .^tars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower 'd. 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw. 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array. 
Far,  far,  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track : 

'T  was  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  w-elcomed  me  back 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  w  hen  my  bosom  was  young; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 
And  luiew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 
part: 

My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fullness  of  heart 

Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn ; 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  : 
But  sorrow  retum'd  with  the  dawning  of  mom, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away 


LIAES 

WRITTEN  ON  VISITING  A  SCENE  IN  ARGYLESHIRE. 

At  the  silence  of  twilight's  contemplative  hour, 

I  have  mused  in  a  sorrowful  mood, 
On  the  wind-shaken  weeds  that  embosom  the  bower 

Where  the  home  of  my  forefathers  stood. 
All  ruin'd  and  wild  is  tlieir  roofless  abode, 

And  lonely  the  dark  raven's  sheltering  tree : 
And  traveird  by  few  is  the  grass-cover"d  road. 
Where  the  hunter  of  deer  and  the  warrior  trode 

To  his  hills  that  encircle  the  sea. 

Yet  wandering,  I  found  on  my  ruinous  walk. 

By  the  dial-stone  aged  and  green, 
One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 

To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been. 
Like  a  brotherless  hermit,  the  last  of  its  race, 

All  wild  in  the  silence  of  nature,  it  drew 
From  each  wandering  sun-beam,  a  lonely  embrace ; 
For  the  night- weed  and  thorn  overshadow'd  the  place' 

Where  the  flower  of  my  forefathers  grew. 

Sweet  bud  of  the  wilderness !  emblem  of  all 

That  remains  in  this  dcs')]ale  heart! 
The  fabric  of  bhss  to  its  centre  may  fall, 

But  patience  shall  never  depart  I 

152 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


41 


Though  the  wilds  of  enchantment,  all  vernal  and 
bright. 

In  the  days  of  delusion  by  fancy  combined 
With  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon'd  my  soul,  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind. 

Be  hush'd,  my  dark  spirit !  for  wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean,  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore ! 
Through  the  perils  of  chance  and  the  scowl  of  disdain, 

May  thy  front  be  unalter'd,  thy  courage  elate  I 
Yea !  even  the  name  I  have  worshipped  in  vain 
Shall  awake  not  the  sigh  of  remembrance  again : 

To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate.       * 


TO  THE  RAINBOW. 

Triumphal  arch,  that  fill'st  the  sky, 
When  storms  prepare  to  part, 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 
To  teach  me  what  thou  art — 

Still  seem,  as  to  my  childhood's  sight, 

A  midway  station  given 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight. 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  Optics  teach,  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamt  of  gems  and  gold 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow " 

When  Science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws. 

What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws  ! 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams. 
But  words  of  the  Most  High, 

Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 
Was  woven  in  the  sky. 

When  o'er  the  green  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine. 

How  came  the  world's  grey  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod. 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep. 
The  first  made  anthem  rang, 

On  earth  deliver'd  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 
Unraptured  greet  thy  beam : 

Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 
Be  still  the  poet's  theme! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields. 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings. 
When  glittering  in  the  freshen'd  fields 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 
20 


How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain  tower,  and  town, 

Or  mirror'd  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down  ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark. 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page. 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span. 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom. 

The  Sun  himself  must  die. 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  Immortality ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep. 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould. 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime  ! 

The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare. 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan. 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight, — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands  ; 

In  plague  and  famine  some ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread , 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb ! 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high. 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood 

As  if  a  storm  pass'd  by. 
Saying,  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  ran, 

'T  is  Mercy  bids  thee  go  ; 
For  thou  ten  thousand  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears, 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  ptide,  his  skill ; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth 

The  vassals  of  his  will ; — 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway. 
Thou  dim  discrowned  lung  of  day: 

For  all  those  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Heal'd  not  a  passion  or  a  pang 

Entail'd  on  human  hearts. 

Go — let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men. 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again. 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back. 
Nor  waken  flesh,  upon  the  rack 

153 


42 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  pain  anew  to  writhe  ,• 
Strelch'd  in  disease's  shapes  abhorr'd, 
Or  mowTi  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

Ev'n  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire ", 
Test  of  all  suraless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast. 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall, — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost! 

This  spirit  shall  return  to  Him 

That  gave  its  heavenly  spark ; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark ! 
No !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine ; 

By  him  recall 'd  to  breath, 
Who  captive  led  captivity. 
Who  robb'd  the  grave  of  Victory, — 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste. 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  the  Night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race. 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod. 
The  dark'ning  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  Immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God ! 


VALEDICTORY  STANZAS 

To  J.  P.  KEMBLE,  Esq. 

Composed  for  a  Public  Electing,  held  June  1817. 

Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  I 
\Vhose  image  brought  th'  heroic  age 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view. 
Like  fields  refresh'd  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last. 
Thy  parting  presence  makes  more  bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past  ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell. 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble — fare  thee  well ! 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  Acting  lends, 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  Arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends : 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  muie  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 


But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought. 
Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come, — 

Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought. 
And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 

Time  may  again  revive, 

But  ne'er  eclipse  the  charm, 
When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm 
What  soul  was  not  resign'd  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor, — 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Azincour  ? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possess'd 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to  each  passion  of  his  breast 
,  The  Graces  gave  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task — too  high, 
Ye  conscious  bosoms  here  ! 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 
Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear ; 
But  who  forgets  that  white  discro-wned  head, 
Those    bursts    of    Reason's    half-extinguish'd 
glare — 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 
In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair. 
If  't  was  reality  he  felt  ? 

Had  Shakspeare's  self  amidst  you  been. 
Friends,  he  had  seen  you  melt. 
And  triuraph'd  to  have  seen! 

And  there  was  many  an  hour 

Of  blended  kindred  fame. 
When  Siddons's  auxiliar  power 

And  sister  magic  came. 
Together  at  the  Muse's  side 

The  tragic  paragons  had  grown — 
They  were  the  children  of  her  pride. 

The  columns  of  her  throne  ; 
And  undivided  favor  ran 

From  heart  to  heart  in  their  applause. 
Save  for  the  gallantry  of  man 

In  loveUer  woman's  cause. 

Fair  as  some  classic  dome. 

Robust  and  richly  graced. 
Your  Kemble's  spirit  was  the  home 

Of  genius  and  of  taste  : 
Taste,  like  the  silent  dial's  power. 

That  when  supernal  light  is  given. 
Can  measure  inspiration's  hour. 

And  tell  its  height  in  heaven. 
At  once  ennobled  and  correct, 

His  mien  survey'd  the  tragic  page, 
And  what  the  actor  could  effect. 

The  scholar  could  presage. 

These  were  his  traits  of  worth  : — 

And  must  we  lose  them  now ! 
And  shall  the  scene  no  more  show  forth 

His  sternly-pleasing  brow ! 
Alas,  the  moral  brings  a  tear! — 

'T  is  all  a  transient  hour  below , 
And  we  that  would  detain  thee  here. 

Ourselves  as  fleetly  go ! 

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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


43 


Yet  shall  our  latest  age 
This  parting  scene  review ; 

Pride  of  the  British  stage, 
A  long  and  last  adieu ! 


A  DREAM. 


Well  may  sleep  present  us  fictions, 

Since  our  waking  moments  teem 
With  such  fanciful  convictions 

As  make  life  itself  a  dream. — 
Half  our  daylight  faith 's  a  fable ; 

Sleep  disports  with  shadows  too, 
Seeming  in  their  turn  as  stable 

As  the  world  we  wake  to  view. 
Ne'er  by  day  did  Reason's  mint 
Give  ray  thoughts  a  clearer  print 
Of  assured  reality, 
Than  was  left  by  Phantasy, 
Stamp'd  and  color'd  on  my  sprite 
In  a  dream  of  yester-night. 

In  a  bark,  methought,  lone  steering, 

I  was  cast  on  Ocean's  strife  ; 
This,  't  was  whisper'd  in  my  hearing, 

Meant  the  sea  of  life. 
Sad  regrets  from  past  existence 

Came,  like  gales  of  chilling  breath ; 
Shadow'd  in  the  forward  distance 

Lay  the  land  of  Death. 
Now  seeming  more,  now  less  remote, 
On  that  dim-seen  shore,  methought, 
I  beheld  two  hands  a  space 
Slow  unshroud  a  spectre's  face ; 
And  my  flesh's  hair  upstood, — 
'T  was  mine  ovni  similitude. 

But  my  soul  revived  at  seeing 

Ocean,  hke  an  emerald-spark. 
Kindle,  while  an  air-dropt  being 

Smiling  steer'd  my  bark. 
Heaven-like — yet  he  look'd  as  human 

As  supernal  beauty  can, 
More  compassionate  than  woman, 

Lordly  more  than  man. 
And  as  some  sweet  clarion's  breath 
Stirs  the  soldier's  scorn  of  death — 
So  his  accents  bade  me  brook 
The  spectre's  eyes  of  icy  look. 
Till  it  shut  them — turn'd  its  head. 
Like  a  beaten  foe,  and  fled. 

"  Types  not  this,"  I  said,  "  fair  spirit ! 

That  my  death-hour  is  not  come  ? 
Say,  what  days  shall  I  inherit  ? — 

Tell  my  soul  their  sum." 
"  No,"  he  said,  "  yon  phantom's  aspect 

Trust  me,  would  appal  thee  worse. 
Held  in  clearly  measured  prospect : — 

Ask  not  for  a  curse  ? 
Make  not,  for  I  overhear 
Thine  imspoken  thoughts  as  clear 
As  thy  mortal  ear  could  catch 
The  close-brought  tickings  of  a  watch — 
Make  not  the  untold  request 
That's  now  revolving  in  thy  breast 


"  'Tis  to  live  again,  remeasuring 

Youth's  years  like  a  scene  rehearsed, 
In  thy  second  life-tiine  treasuring 

Knowledge  from  tlie  first. 
Hast  thou  felt,  poor  self  deceiver ! 

Life's  career  so  void  of  pain. 
As  to  wish  its  fitful  fever 

New  begun  again  ? 
Could  experience,  ten  times  thine. 
Pain  from  Being  disentwine — 
Threads  by  Fate  together  spun  ? 
Could  thy  flight  Heaven's  lightning  shun  ? 
No,  nor  could  thy  foresight's  glance 
'Scape  the  mjniad  shafts  of  chance. 

"  Wouldst  thou  bear  again  Love's  trouble- 
Friendship's  death-dissever'd  ties ; 

Toil  to  grasp  or  miss  the  bubble 
Of  Ambition's  prize  ? 

Say  thy  life's  new-guided  action 

Flow'd  from  Virtue's  fairest  springs — 

Still  would  En\y  and  Detraction 
Double  not  their  stings  ? 

Worth  itself  is  but  a  charter 

To  be  mankind's  distinguish'd  martyr." 

— I  caught  the  moral,  and  cried,  "  Hail ! 

Spirit !  let  us  onward  sail, 

Envying,  fearing,  hating  none, — 

Guardian  Spirit,  steer  me  on ! " 


LINES 

Written  at  the  request  of  the  Highland  Society  in  Lon 
don,  when  met  to  commemorate  the  21st  of  March,  the 
day  of  victory  in  Egypt. 

Pledge  to  the  much-loved  land  that  gave  us  birth ! 

Invincible  romantic  Scotia's  shore  ! 
Pledge  to  the  memory  of  her  parted  worth ! 

And  first,  amidst  the  brave,  remember  Moore ! 

And  be  it  deem'd  not  wrong  that  name  to  give, 
In  festive  hours,  which  prompts  the  patriot's  sigh 

Who  would  not  euAy  such  as  Moore  to  live  ? 
And  died  he  not  as  heroes  wish  to  die  ? 

Yes,  though  too  soon  attaining  glory's  goal, 
To  us  his  bright  career  too  short  was  given ; 

Yet  in  a  mighty  cause  his  phoenix  soul 
Rose  on  the  flames  of  victory  to  Heaven ! 

How  ofl  (if  beats  in  subjugated  Spain 
.     One  patriot  heart)  in  secret  shall  it  mourn  " 
Kpr  him ! — How  oft  on  far  Corunna's  plain 
Shall  British  exiles  weep  upon  his  urn ! 

Peace  to  the  mighty  dead  ! — our  bosom  thanlb 
In  sprightlier  strains  the  living  may  inspire ! 

Joy  to  the  chiefs  that  lead  old  Scotia's  ranks. 
Of  Roman  garb,  and  more  than  Roman  fire ! 

Triumphant  be  the  thistle  still  unfurl'd. 

Dear  symbol  wild  !  on  freedom's  hills  it  grows. 

Where  Fingal  stemm'd  the  tyrants  of  the  world, 
And  Roman  eagles  found  unconquer'd  foes. 

155 


44 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Joy  to  the  band  '  ihis  day  on  Egypt's  coast, 
Whose  valor  lamed  proud  France's  tricolor, 

And  wrench'd  the  banner  Irorn  her  bravest  host, 
Baptized  Invincible  in  Austria's  gore  ! 

Joy  for  the  day  on  red  Vimeira's  strand, 

When,  bayonet  to  bayonet  opposed, 
First  of  Britannia's  host  her  Highland  band 

Gave  but  the  death-shot  once,  and  foremost  closed  I 

Is  there  a  son  of  generous  England  here, 
Or  fervid  Erin  ? — he  with  us  shall  join, 

To  pray  that  in  eternal  union  dear. 

The  rose,  the  shamrock,  and  the  thistle  twine ! 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  th'  invader  scorn. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  round  their  shore ; 

Types  of  a  race  who  shall  to  time  unborn 
Their  Country  leave  unconquer'd  as  of  yore ! 


STANZAS 


To  the  memory  of  the  Spanish  Patriots  latest  killed 
in  resisting  the  Regency  and  the  Duke  of  Angou- 
leme. 

Brave  men  who  at  the  Trocadero  fell — 
Beside  your  cannons  conquer'd  not,  though  slain. 
There  is  a  victory  in  dying  well 
For  Freedom, — and  ye  have  not  died  in  vain ; 
For  come  w-hat  may,  there  shall  be  hearts  in  Spain 
To  honor,  aye  embrace  your  martyr'd  lot, 
Cursing  the  Bigot's  and  the  Bourbon's  chain. 
And  looking  on  your  graves,  though  trophied  not. 
As  holier,  hallow'd  ground  than  priests  could  make 
the  spot ! 

What  though  your  cause  be  baffled — freemen  cast 

In  dungeons — dragg'd  to  death,  or  forced  to  flee  ; 

Hope  is  not  wither'd  in  affliction's  blast — 

The  patriot's  blood 's  the  seed  of  Freedom's  tree ; 

And  short  your  orgies  of  revenge  shall  be, 

Cowl'd  Demons  of  the  In(iuisiiorial  cell ! 

Earth  shudders  at  your  victory, — for  ye 

Are  worse  than  common  fiends  from  Heaven  that  fell, 

The  baser,  ranker  sprung.  Autochthones  of  Hell ! 

Go  to  your  bloody  rites  again — bring  back 
The  hall  of  horrors  and  the  assessor's  pen, 
Recording  answers  shriek'd  upon  the  rack; 
Smile  o'er  the  gaspings  of  spine-broken  men ; — 
Preach,  perpetrate  damnation  in  your  den  ; — 
Then  let  your  altars,  ye  blasphemers !  peal 
With  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  let  you  loose  again, 
To  practise  deeds  with  torturing  nre  and  steel 
No  eye  may  search — no  tongue  may  challenge  or 
reveal ! 

Yet  laugh  not  in  your  carnival  of  crime 

Too  proudly,  ye  oppressors! — Spain  was  free; 

Her  soil  has  felt  the  foot-prints,  and  her  clime 

Been  winnow'd  by  the  w  ings  of  Liberty  ; 

And  these  even  parting  scatter  as  they  flee 

Thoughts — influences,  to  live  in  hearts  unborn. 

Opinions  that  shall  wrench  the  prison-key 

From  Persecution — show  her  mask  off-torn. 

And  tramp  her  bloated  head  beneath  the  foot  of  Scorn. 


1  The  42d  regiment. 


Glory  to  them  that  die  in  this  great  cause! 
Kings,  Bigots,  can  inflict  no  brand  of  shame. 
Or  shape  of  death,  to  shroud  them  from  applause:— 
No ! — manglers  of  the  martyr's  earthly  frame  ! 
Your  hangmen  fingers  cannot  touch  his  fame, 
Still  in  your  prostrate  land  there  shall  be  some 
Proud  hearts,  the  shrines  of  Freedom's  vestal  flame 
Long  trains  of  ill  may  pass  unheeded,  dumb, 
But  vengeance  is  behind,  and  justice  is  to  come. 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEKS. 

Again  to  the  battle,  Achaians ! 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 

Our  land,  the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree — 

It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free ; 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

And  we  march  that  the  foot-prints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 

May  be  wash'd  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us. 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

Ah !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 

Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Are  stretch'd  in  our  aid — be  the  combat  our  own ! 

And  we  '11  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone : 

For  we  've  sworn  by  our  Country's  assaulters. 

By  the  virgins  they've  dragg'd  from  our  altars. 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains. 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 

That,  living,  we  shall  be  victorious,^ 

Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not ; 

The  sword  that  we  've  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not ! 

Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid. 

And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide — waves  engulf — fire  consume  us, 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us  : 

If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves  ; 

But  we  've  smote  them  already  with  fire  on  the  waves 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us. 

To  the  charee  ! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 


This  day  shall  ye  blush  for  its  story. 

Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory. 

Our  women,  oh,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair. 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest  with  wreaths  in  their  hairi 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 

If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 

Till  we  've  trampled  the  turban  and  shown  ourselv( 

worth 
Being  sprung  from  and  named  for  the  godhke  of  earth 
Strike  home,  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 
As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion 
Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  Ocean  ; 
Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns  shall  with  jubilee  ring 
And  the  Nine  shall  new-hallow  their  Helicon's  spring 
Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness, 
That  were  cold  and  extinguish'd  in  sadness ; 

156 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


45 


Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white 

waving  arms, 
Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  deliver'd  their  charms, 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  purpled  the  beaks  of  our  ravens. 


SONG  OF  HYBRIAS  THE  CRETAN. 

My  wealth 's  a  burly  spear  and  brand, 
And  a  right  good  shield  of  hides  untami'd, 

Which  on  my  arm  I  buckle : 
With  these  I  plow,  I  reap,  I  sow, 
With  these  I  make  the  sweet  vintage  flow, 

And  all  around  me  truckle. 

But  your  wights  that  take  no  pride  to  wield 
A  massy  spear  and  well-made  shield, 

Nor  joy  to  draw  the  sword  : 
Oh,  I  bring  those  heartless,  hapless  drones, 
Down  in  a  trice  on  their  marrow-bones. 

To  call  me  King  and  Lord. 


FRAGMENT 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  ALCMAN. 

The  mountain  summits  sleep: — glens,   cliffs,   and 
caves, 
Are  silent — all  the  black  earth's  reptile  brood — 
The  bees — the  wild  beasts  of  the  mountain  wood  : 
In  depths  beneath  the  dark-red  ocean's  waves 

Its  monsters  rest,  whilst  wTapt  in  bower  and  spray 
Each  bird  is  hush'd  that  stretch'd  its  pinions  to  the 
day. 


MARTIAL  ELEGY 

FROM   THE   GREEK    OF   TYRT^US. 

How  glorious  fall  the  valiant,  sword  in  hand, 
In  front  of  battle  for  their  native  land ! 
But  oh !  what  ills  await  the  viTetch  that  yields, 
A  recreant  outcast  from  his  country's  fields ! 
The  mother  whom  he  loves  shall  quit  her  home. 
An  aged  father  at  his  side  shall  roam  ; 
His  little  ones  shall  weeping  with  him  go, 
And  a  young  wife  participate  his  woe ; 
While  scom'd  and  scowFd  upon  by  every  face, 
They  pine  for  food,  and  beg  from  place  to  place. 

Stain  of  his  breed!  dishonoring  manhood's  form. 
All  ills  shall  cleave  to  him : — Affliction's  storm 
Shall  blind  him  wandering  in  the  vale  of  years, 
Till,  lost  to  all  but  ignominious  fears. 
He  shall  not  blush  to  leave  a  recreant's  name. 
And  cliildren,  like  himself,  inured  to  shame. 

But  we  will  combat  for  our  fathers'  land, 
And  we  will  drain  the  life-blood  where  we  stand 
To  save  our  children : — fight  ye  side  by  side. 
And  serried  close,  ye  men  of  youthful  pride. 
Disdaining  fear,  and  deeming  light  the  cost 
Of  life  itself  in  glorious  battle  lost. 

Leave  not  our  sires  to  stem  th'  imequal  fight. 
Whose  hmbs  are  nerved  no  more  with  buoyant  might 
Nor,  lagging  backward,  let  the  younger  breast 
Permit  the  man  of  age  (a  sight  unbless'd) 

O 


To  welter  in  the  combat's  foremost  thrust. 
His  hoary  head  dishevell'd  in  the  dust, 
And  venerable  bosom  bleeding  bare. 

But  youth's  fair  form,  though  fall'n.  is  ever  fair 
And  beautiful  in  death  the  boy  appears, 
The  hero  boy,  that  dies  in  blooming  years  : 
In  man's  regret  he  lives,  and  woman's  tears, 
More  sacred  than  in  life,  and  lovelier  far, 
For  having  perish'd  in  the  front  of  war. 


SPECIMENS  OF  TRANSLATION 

FROM    MEDEA. 


"Zkuiovs  6e  Xeycjv,  Kovciv  tl  aofovg 
lovs  irpoade  (iporovs  ovk  av  aftaprots. 
Medea,  v.  194,  p.  63,  Glasg.  edit 


Tell  me,  ye  bards,  whose  skill  sublime 
First  charm'd  the  ear  of  youthful  Time, 
With  numbers  wrapt  in  heavenly  fire, 
"Who  bade  delighted  echo  swell 
The  trembling  transports  of  the  lyre, 
The  murmur  of  the  shell — 
Why  to  the  burst  of  Joy  alone 
Accords  sweet  Music's  soothing  tone  ? 
■VNIiy  can  no  bard,  with  magic  strain, 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain  ? 
While  varied  tones  obey  your  sweep, 
The  mild,  the  plaintive,  and  the  deep, 
Bends  not  despairing  Grief  to  hear 
Your  golden  lute,  with  ravish'd  ear  ? 
Oh!  has  your  sweetest  shell  no  power  to  bind 
The  fiercer  pangs  that  shake  the  mind. 
And  lull  the  wrath  at  whose  command 
Murder  bares  her  gory  hand  ? 
When,  flush'd  with  joy,  tlie  rosy  throng 
Weave  the  light  dance,  ye  swell  the  song! 
Cease  ye  vain  warblers !  cease  to  charm  ' 
The  breast  with  other  raptures  warm ! 
Cease  !  till  your  hand  with  magic  strain 
In  slumbers  steep  the  heart  of  pain ! 


SPEECH  OF  THE  CHORUS  IN  THE  SAME 
TRAGEDY, 

TO  DISSUADE  MEDEA  FROM  HER  PURPOSE  OF  PUTTINO 
HER  CHILDREN  TO  DEATH,  AND  FLYING  FOR  PRO 
TECTION  TO  ATHENS. 

STROPHE  I. 

O  HAGGARD  queen!  to  Athens  dost  thou  guide 
Thy  glowing  chariot,  steep'd  in  kindred  gore ; 

Or  seek  to  hide  thy  damned  parricide 

Where  Peace  and  Mercy  dwell  for  evermore? 

The  land  where  Truth,  pure,  precious,  and  sublime 
Wooes  the  deep  silence  of  sequester'd  bowers. 

And  warriors,  matchless  since  the  first  of  time, 
Rear  their  bright  banners  o'er  unconquer'd  tower?  • 

Where  joyous  youth,  to  Music's  mellow  strain. 
Twines  in  the  dance  with  nymphs  for  ever  fair. 

While  spring  eternal,  on  the  lilied  plain. 

Waves  amber  radiance  through  the  fields  of  air ' 

157 


46 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  tuneful  Nine  (so  sacred  legends  tell) 

First  waked  iheir  heavenly  lyre  these  scenes  among; 

Still  in  your  greenwood  bowers  they  love  to  dwell  ; 
Still  in  your  vales  they  swell  the  choral  song ! 

But  there  the  tuneful,  chaste,  Pierian  fair. 

The  guardian  nymphs  of  green  Parnassus,  now 

Sprung  from  Harmonia,  while  her  graceful  hair 
Waved  in  bright  auburn  o'er  her  polish'd  brow ! 

ANTISTROPHE  I. 

Where  silent  vales,  and  glades  of  green  array. 
The  murmuring  wreaths  of  cool  Cephisus  lave, 

There,  as  the  muse  hath  sung,  at  noon  of  day. 
The  Queen  of  Beauty  bow'd  to  taste  the  wave ; 

And  blest  the  stream,  and  breathed  across  the  land 
The  soft  sweet  gale  that  fans  j-on  summer  bowers; 

And  there  the  sister  Loves,  a  smiling  band, 

Crown'd  with  the  fragrant  wreaths  of  rosy  flowers! 

"  And  go,"  she  cries,  "  in  yonder  valleys  rove. 
With  Beauty's  torch  the  solemn  scenes  illume ; 

Wake  in  each  eye  the  radiant )  ight  of  Love, 

Breathe  on  each  cheek  young  Passion's   tender 
bloom ! 

"  Entwine,  with  myrtle  chains,  your  soft  control, 
To  sway  the  hearts  of  Freedom's  darling  kind ! 

With  glowing  charms  enrapture  Wisdom's  soul. 
And  mould  to  grace  ethereal  Virtue's  mind." 

STROPHE  II. 

The  land  where  Heaven's  own  hallow'd  waters  play, 
Where  friendship  binds  the  generous  and  the  good, 

Say,  shall  it  hail  thee  from  thy  frantic  way. 
Unholy  woman !  with  thy  hands  imbrued 

In  thine  own  children's  gore  ?   Oh !  ere  they  bleed, 
Let  Nature's  voice  thy  ruthless  heart  appal ! 

Pause  at  the  bold,  irrevocable  deed — 

The  mother  strikes — the  guiltless  babes  shall  fall ! 

Think  what  remorse  thy  maddening  thoughts  shall 
sting, 

When  dying  pangs  their  gentle  bosoms  tear ! 
Where  shalt  thou  sink,  when  lingering  echoes  ring 

The  screams  of  horror  in  thy  tortured  ear  ? 

No !  let  thy  bosom  melt  to  Pity's  cry, — 

In  dust  we  kneel — by  sacred  Heaven  implore — 

O!  stop  thy  lifted  arm,  ere  yet  they  die, 
Nor  dip  thy  horrid  hands  in  infant  gore! 

ANTISTROPHE  II. 

Say,  how  shalt  thou  that  barbarous  :5oul  assume, 
Undamp'd  by  horror  at  the  daring  plan  ? 

Hast  thou  a  heart  to  work  thy  children's  doom  ? 
Or  hands  to  finish  w^hat  thy  wrath  began  ? 

When  o'er  each  babe  you  look  a  last  adieu. 
And  gaze  on  Innocence  that  smiles  asleep. 

Shall  no  fond  feeling  beat  to  Natm-e  true. 

Charm  thee  to  pensive  thought — and  bid  thee  weep? 

When  the  young  suppliants  clasp  their  parent  dear. 
Heave  the  deep  sob,  and  pour  the  artless  prayer, — 

Ay,  thou  shalt  melt; — and  many  a  heart-shed  tear 
Gush  o'er  the  harden'd  features  of  despair ! 


Nature  shall  throb  in  every  tender  string, — 
Thy  trembling  heart  tlie  ruffian's  task  deny ; — 

Thy  horror-smitlen  hands  afar  shall  fling 

The  blade,  undrench'd  in  blood's  eternal  dye. 


Hallow'd  Earth !  with  indignation 
Mark,  oh  mark,  the  murderous  deed ! 

Radiant  eye  of  wide  creation, 
Watch  the  damned  parricide ! 

Yet,  ere  Colchia's  rugged  daughter 

Perpetrate  the  dire  design, 
And  consign  to  kindred  slaughter 

Children  of  thy  golden  line ! 

Shall  thy  hand,  with  murder  gory, 
Cause  immortal  blood  to  flow? 

Sun  of  Heaven  !  array'd  in  glory 
Rise,  forbid,  avert  the  blow ! 

In  the  vales  of  placid  gladness 
Let  no  rueful  maniac  range  ; 

Chase  afar  the  fiend  of  Madness, 
Wrest  the  dagger  from  Revenge ! 

Say,  hast  thou,  with  kind  protection, 
Rear'd  thy  smiling  race  in  vain  ; 

Fostering  Nature's  fond  affection, 
Tender  cares,  and  pleasing  pain? 

Hast  thou  on  the  troubled  ocean    - 
Braved  the  tempest  loud  and  strong, 

Where  the  waves,  in  wild  commotion, 
Roar  Cyanean  rocks  among  ? 

Didst  thou  roam  the  paths  of  danger 

Hymenean  joys  to  prove? 
Spare,  O  sanguinary  stranger. 

Pledges  of  thy  sacred  love ! 

Shall  not  Heaven,  with  indignation. 
Watch  thee  o'er  the  barbarous  deed  ? 

Shalt  thou  cleanse,  with  expiation, 
Monstrous,  murd'rous  parricide  ? 


ODE  TO  WINTER. 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run ; 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue. 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 
First,  in  green  apparel  dancing. 

The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel  grace  ; 
Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 

Rush'd  into  her  sire's  embrace : 
Her  bright-hair'd  sire,  w'ho  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles. 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep. 

On  India's  citron-cover'd  isles  : 
More  remote  and  buxom-brown 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne ; 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crowTi, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 

But  howling  Winter  fled  afar, 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star, 

158 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


47 


And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride, 
With  barren  darkness  by  his  side. 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale  ; 
Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflow'ring  Nature's  grassy  robe. 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form : — 
Till  light's  returning  lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume, 

And  crystal-cover'd  shield. 

O  sire  of  storms !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzj',  with  her  blood-shot  eye, 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity. 
Archangel !  power  of  desolation ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart  ? 
Then,  sullen  Winter,  hear  my  prayer. 

And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year  ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare, 

Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear ; — 
To  shuddering  want's  vmmantled  bed 
Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lead. 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 
Of  innocence  descend. 

But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds  \ 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep. 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter !  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan ; 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  own. 
Alas  !  ev'n  your  unhallow'd  breath 

May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low ; 
But  man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, — 

No  bounds  to  human  woe.' 


Unconscious  of  the  doom,  we  dreamt,  alas  I 

That  ev'n  these  walls,  ere  many  months  should  pass 

Which  but  return  sad  accents  for  her  now. 

Perhaps  had  witness'd  her  benignant  brow, 

Cheer'd  by  the  voice  you  would  have  raised  on  high 

In  bursts  of  British  love  and  loyalty. 

But,  Britain !  now  thy  chief,  thy  people  mourn. 

And  Claremont's  home  of  love  is  left  forlorn : — 

There,  where  the  happiest  of  the  happy  dwelt, 

The  'scutcheon  glooms,  and  royalty  hath  felt 

A  wound  that  every  bosom  feels  its  own, — 

The  blessing  of  a  father's  heart  o'erthrown — 

The  most  beloved  and  most  devoted  bride 

Torn  from  an  agonized  husband's  side, 

Who  "  long  as  Memory  holds  her  seat "  shall  view 

That  speechless,  more  than  spoken,  last  adieu. 

When  the  fix'd  eye  long  look'd  connubial  faith. 

And  beam'd  affection  in  the  trance  of  death. 

Sad  was  the  pomp  that  yester-night  beheld. 

As  with  the  mourner's  heart  the  anthem  swell'd , 

WTiile  torch  succeeding  torch  illumed  each  high 

And  banner'd  arch  of  England's  chivalry. 

The  rich  plumed  canopy,  the  gorgeous  pall. 

The  sacred  march  and  sable-vested  wall, — 

These  were  not  rites  of  inexpressive  show. 

But  hallow'd  as  the  types  of  real  woe ! 

Daughter  of  England !  for  a  nation's  sighs, 

A  nation's  heart  went  with  thine  obsequies ! — 

And  oft  shall  time  revert  a  look  of  grief 

On  thine  existence,  beautiful  and  brief 

Fair  spirit !  send  thy  blessing  from  above 

On  realms  where  thou  art  canonized  by  love ! 

Give  to  a  father's,  husband's  bleeding  mind, 

The  peace  that  angels  lend  to  human  kind ; 

To  us,  who  in  thy  loved  remembrance  feel 

A  sorrowing,  but  a  soul-ennobling  zeal — 

A  loyally  that  touches  all  the  best 

And  loftiest  principles  of  England's  breast ! 

Still  may  thy  name  speak  concord  from  the  tomb-- 

Still  in  the  jtluse's  breath  thy  memory  bloom  I 

They  shall  describe  thy  life — thy  form  portray; 

But  all  the  love  that  mourns  thee  swept  away, 

'T  is  not  in  language  or  expressive  arts 

To  paint — yet  feel  it,  Britons,  in  your  hearts ! 


LINES 

Spoken  hy  Mr.  ****,  at  Dmry-Lane  Theatre,  on 
i    first   opening  of  the  house  after  the  death  of 
Princess  Charlotte,  1817. 

^>p^iT0NS !  although  our  task  is  but  to  show 
The  scenes  and  passions  of  fictitious  woe, 
rhink  not  we  come  this  night  without  a  part 
[n  that  deep  sorrow  of  the  public  heart, 
IVhich  like  a  shade  hath  darken'd  every  place, 
And  moisten'd  with  a  tear  the  manhest  facei 
The  bell  is  scarcely  hush'd  in  Windsor's  piles, 
That  toll'd  a  requiem  from  the  solemn  aisles. 
For  her,  the  royal  flower,  low  laid  in  dust. 
That  was  your  fairest  hope,  your  fondest  trust. 


LINES 


1  This  ode  was  written  in  Germany,  at  the  close  of  1800, 
ore  the  conclusion  of  hostilities. 


ON  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  SUICIDE. 

By  strangers  left  upon  a  lonely  shore. 

Unknown,  unhonor'd,  was  the  friendless  dead ; 

For  child  to  weep,  or  widow  to  deplore. 
There  never  came  to  his  unburied  head : 
All  from  his  dreary  habitation  fled. 

Nor  will  the  lantern'd  fisherman  at  eve 

Launch  on  that  water  by  the  witches'  tow'r. 

Where  hellebore  and  hemlock  seem  to  weave 
Round  its  dark  vaults  a  melancholy  bow'r, 
For  spirits  of  the  dead  at  night's  enchanted  nour 

They  dread  to  meet  thee,  poor  unfortunate  ! 

Whose  crime  it  was,  on  life's  unfinish'd  road 
To  feel  the  stepdame  buffctings  of  fate, 

And  render  back  thy  being's  heavy  load. 

Ah !  once,  perhaps,  the  social  passions  glow'd 

159 


48 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  thy  devoted  bosom — and  the  hand 

That  smote  its  kindred  heart  might  yet  be  prone 

To  deeds  of  mercy.     Who  may  understand 
Thy  many  woes,  poor  suicide,  unknown  ? — 
He  who  thy  being  gave  shall  judge  of  thee  alone. 


REULLURA.' 


Star  of  the  morn  and  eve, 

Reuliura  shone  like  thee. 
And  w-ell  for  her  might  Aodh  grieve, 

The  dark-attired  Culdee.^ 
Peace  to  their  shades !  the  pure  Culdees 

Were  Albjii's  earHest  priests  of  God, 
Ere  yet  an  island  of  her  seas 

By  foot  of  Saxon  monk  was  trode, 
Long  ere  her  churchmen  by  bigotry 
Were  barr'd  from  holy  wedlock's  tie, 
Twas  then  that  Aodh,  famed  afar, 

In  lona  preach'd  the  word  with  power. 
And  Reuliura,  beauty's  star. 

Was  the  partner  of  his  bower. 

But,  Aodh,  the  roof  lies  low. 

And  the  thistle-down  waves  bleaching, 
And  the  bat  flits  to  and  fro 

Where  the  Gael  once  heard  thy  preaching; 
And  fallen  is  each  column'd  aisle 

Where  the  chiefs  and  the  people  knelt. 
'T  was  near  that  temple's  goodly  pile 

That  honor'd  of  men  they  dwelt. 
For  Aodh  was  wise  in  the  sacred  law. 
And  bright  Reullura's  eyas  oft  saw 

The  veil  of  fate  uplifted. 
Alas,  with  what  visions  of  awe 

Her  soul  in  that  hour  was  gifted — 

When  pale  in  the  temple  and  faint. 

With  Aodh  sh«  stood  alone 
By  the  statue  of  an  aged  Saint  I 

Fair  sculptured  was  the  stone. 
It  bore  a  crucifix  ; 

Fame  said  it  once  had  graced 
A  Christian  temple,  which  the  Picts 

In  the  Britons'  land  laid  waste : 
The  Pictish  men,  by  St.  Columb  taught, 
Had  hither  the  holy  relic  brought. 
Reuliura  eyed  the  statue's  face. 

And  cried,  "  It  is  he  shall  come, 
Even  he,  in  this  very  place. 

To  avenge  my  martyrdom. 

•'  For,  woe  to  the  Gael  people : 

Uh-fagre  is  on  the  main. 
And  lona  shall  look  from  tower  and  steeple 

On  the  coming  ships  of  the  Dane  ; 


1  Reuliura,  in  Gaelic,  signifies  "beautiful  star." 

2  The  Culdees  were  the  primitive  clergy  of  Scotland,  and  ap- 
parently her  only  clerey  from  the  sixth  to  the  eleventh  century. 
They  were  of  Irish  origin  ;  and  their  monastery,  on  the  island 
of  lona  or  Icolmkill,  was  the  seminary  of  Christianity  in  North 
Britain.  Presbyterian  writers  have  wished  to  prove  them  to  have 
been  a  sort  of  Presbyters,  strangers  to  the  Roman  Church  and 
Episcopacy.  It  seems  to  be  established  that  they  were  not  ene- 
mies to  Episcopacy ;  but  that  they  were  not  slavishly  subjected 
to  Rome,  like  the  clergy  of  later  periods,  appears  by  their  re- 
sisting the  Papal  ordinances  respecting  the  celibacy  of  religious 
men,  on  which  account  they  were  ultimately  displaced  by  the 
Scottish  sovereigns  to  make  way  for  more  Popish  canons. 


And,  dames  and  daughters,  shall  all  your  locks 

With  the  spoiler's  grasp  entwine  ? 
No !  some  shall  have  shelter  in  caves  and  rocka 

And  the  deep  sea  shall  be  mine. 
Baffled  by  me  shall  the  Dane  return, 
And  here  shall  his  torch  in  the  temple  bum, 
Until  that  holy  man  shall  plow 

The  waves  from  Innisfail. 
His  sail  is  on  the  deep  e'en  now. 

And  swells  to  the  southern  gale." 

"  Ah !  knowest  thou  not,  my  bride," 

The  holy  Aodh  said, 
"That  the  Saint  whose  form  we  stand  beside 

Has  for  ages  slept  with  the  dead?" 
"  He  liveth,  he  liveth,"  she  said  again, 

"  For  the  span  of  his  life  tenfold  extends 
Beyond  the  wonted  years  of  men. 

He  sits  by  the  graves  of  well-loved  friends 
That  died  ere  thy  grandsire's  grandsire's  birth , 
The  oak  is  decayed  with  old  age  on  earth. 
Whose  acorn-seed  had  been  planted  by  him; 

And  his  parents  remember  the  day  of  dread 
When  the  sun  on  the  cross  look'd  dim. 

And  the  graves  gave  up  their  dead. 

"Yet,  preaching  from  clime  to  clime. 

He  hath  roam'd  the  earth  for  ages, 
And  hither  he  shall  come  in  time 

When  the  wrath  of  the  heathen  rages. 
In  time  a  remnant  from  the  sword — 

Ah  !  but  a  remnant  to  deliver ; 
Yet,  blest  be  the  name  of  the  Lord ! 

His  martyrs  shall  go  into  bliss  for  ever. 
Lochlin,'  appall'd,  shall  put  up  her  steel. 
And  thou  shall  embark  on  the  bounding  keel ; 
Safe  shalt  thou  pass  through  her  hundred  ships. 

With  the  Saint  and  a  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Lord  will  instruct  thy  lips 

To  preach  in  Innisfail."2 

The  sun,  now.  about  to  set. 

Was  burning  o'er  Tiriee, 
And  no  gathering  cry  rose  yet 

O'er  the  isles  of  Albyn's  sea. 
W'hilst  Reuliura  saw  far  rowers  dip 

Their  oars  beneath  the  sim. 
And  the  phantom  of  many  a  Danish  ship, 

Wliere  ship  there  yet  was  none. 
And  the  shield  of  alarm'  was  dumb, 
Nor  did  their  warning  till  midnight  come, 
When  watch-fires  burst  from  across 

From  Rona  and  Uist  and  Skey, 
To  tell  that  the  ships  of  the  Dane 

And  the  red-hair'd  slayers  were  nigh. 

Our  islesmen  arose  from  slumbers, 

And  buckled  on  their  arms  ; 
But  few,  alas  !  were  their  numbers 

To  Lochlin's  mailed  swarms. 
And  the  blade  of  the  bloody  Norse 

Has  fill'd  the  shores  of  the  Gael 
W^ith  many  a  floating  corse. 

And  with  many  a  woman's  wail. 


1  Denmark.  2  Ireland. 

3  Striking  the  shield  was  an  ancient  mode  of  convocation  1 
war  among  the  Gael. 

160 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


49 


Tliey  have  lighted  the  islands  with  Ruin's  torch, 
Aiid  the  holy  men  of  lonas  church 
In  the  temple  of  God  lay  slain ; 

All  but  Aodh,  the  last  Culdee, 
But  bound  with  many  an  iron  chain. 

Bound  in  that  church  was  he. 

And  where  is  Aodh's  bride  ? 

Rocks  of  the  ocean  flood  ! 
Plunged  she  not  from  your  heights  in  pride, 

And  mock'd  the  men  of  blood  ? 
Then  Ulvfagre  and  his  bands 

In  the  temple  lighted  their  banquet  up. 
And  the  print  of  their  blood-red  hands 

Was  left  on  the  altar-cup. 
'T  was  then  that  the  Norseman  to  Aodh  said, 
"  Tell  where  thy  church's  treasure  's  laid, 
*0r  I  '11  hew  thee  limb  from  limb." 

As  he  spoke  the  bell  struck  three, 
And  every  torch  grew  dim 

That  lighted  their  revelry. 

But  the  torches  again  burnt  bright, 

And  brighter  than  before, 
When  an  aged  man  of  majestic  height 

Enter'd  the  temple  door. 
Hush'd  was  the  revellers'  sound, 

They  were  struck  as  mute  as  the  dead, 
And  their  hearts  were  appall'd  by  the  very  sound 

Of  his  footstep's  measured  tread, 
Nor  word  was  spoken  by  one  beholder, 
■\\Tiile  he  flung  his  white  robe  back  on  his  shoulder. 
And  stretching  his  arms — as  eath 

Unriveted  Aodh's  bands, 
As  if  the  gyves  had  been  a  wreath 

Of  willows  in  his  hands. 

All  saw  the  stranger's  similitude 

To  the  ancient  statue's  form ; 
The  Saint  before  his  own  image  stood. 

And  grasp'd  Ulvfagre's  arm. 
Then  uprose  the  Danes  at  last  to  deliver 

Their  chief,  and  shouting  with  one  accord, 
They  drew  the  shaft  from  its  rattling  quiver, 

They  hfted  the  spear  and  sword, 
And  levell'd  their  spears  in  rows. 
But  down  went  axes  and  spears  and  bows, 
When  the  Saint  with  his  crosier  sign'd, 

The  archer's  hand  on  the  string  was  stopt. 
And  down,  hke  reeds  laid  flat  by  the  wind, 

Their  hfted  weapons  dropt. 

The  Saint  then  gave  a  signal  mute, 

And  though  Ulvfagre  will'd  it  not. 
He  came  and  stood  at  the  statue's  foot, 

Spell-riveted  to  the  spot. 
Till  hands  im-isible  shook  the  wall, 

And  the  tottering  image  was  dash'd 
DowTi  from  its  lofty  pedestal. 

On  Ulvfagre's  helm  it  crash'd — 
Helmet,  and  skull,  and  flesh,  and  brain, 
It  crush'd  as  millstone  crushes  the  grain. 
Then  spoke  the  Saint,  whilst  all  and  each 

Of  the  Heathen  trembled  round, 
And  the  pauses  amidst  his  speech 

Were  as  awful  as  the  sound  : 

21  02 


"  Go  back,  ye  wolves,  to  your  dens,"  he  cried, 

"And  tell  the  nations  abroad. 
How  the  fiercest  of  your  herd  has  died 

That  slaughter'd  the  flock  of  God. 
Gather  him  bone  by  bone, 

And  take  with  you  o'er  the  flood 
The  fragments  of  ihat  avenging  stone 

That  drank  his  Heathen  blood. 
These  are  the  spoils  from  Zona's  sack, 
The  only  spoils  ye  shall  carry  back ; 
For  the  hand  that  uphfteth  spear  or  sword 

Shall  be  wither'd  by  palsy's  shock. 
And  I  come  in  the  name  of  the  Lord 

To  deliver  a  remnant  of  his  flock. 

A  remnant  was  call'd  together, 

A  doleful  remnant  of  the  Gael, 
And  the  Saint  in  the  ship  that  had  brought  him 

hither 

Took  the  mourners  to  Innisfail. 
Unscathed  they  left  lona's  strand, 

When  the  opal  morn  first  flush'd  the  sky. 
For  the  Norse  dropt  spear,  and  bow,  and  brand 

And  look'd  on  them  silently ; 
Save  from  their  hiding-places  came 
Orphans  and  mothers,  child  and  dame : 
But  alas !  when  the  search  for  Reullura  spread. 

No  answering  voice  was  given, 
For  the  sea  had  gone  o'er  her  lovely  head, 

And  her  spirit  was  in  Heaven. 


THE  TURKISH  LADY. 

'T  WAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Call'd  each  PajTiim  voice  to  prayer. 

And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshen'd  air. 

Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted. 

Calm  and  sweet  the  raoonhght  rose  : 

Ev'n  a  captive  spirit  tasted 
Half  obhvion  of  his  woes. 

Then  't  was  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  eastern  lady  bright : 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  loved  an  English  knight. 

"  Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 
Foes  have  dragg'd  thee  here  to  dwell, 

■Where  poor  Christians  as  they  languish 
Hear  no  sound  of  sabbath  bell  ?" — 

"  'T  was  on  Transylvania's  Bannat, 
When  the  Crescent  shone  afar, 

Like  a  pale  disastrous  planet 
O'er  the  pxuple  tide  of  war — 

"  In  that  day  of  desolation, 

Lady,  I  was  captive  made ; 
Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 

By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade." 

"  Captive !  could  the  brightest  jewel 
From  my  turban  set  thee  free  ?" — 

"  Lady,  no ! — the  gift  were  cruel, 
Ransom'd,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 


161 


50 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Say,  fair  princess  I  would  it  grieve  thee 
Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ?  " 

"  Nay,  bold  knight  I  I  would  not  leave  thee 
Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold ! " 

Now  in  Heaven's  blue  expansion 
Rose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 

When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion 
Thrice  she  wept,  and  bade  adieu ! 

"  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover ! 

Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  ! " 
Soon  at  Rhodes  the  British  lover 

Clasp'd  his  blooming  Eastern  Bride. 


THE  WOUNDED  HUSSAR. 

Alone  to  the  banks  of  the  dark-rolling  Danube 
Fair  Adelaide  hied  when  the  battle  was  o'er : — 

"  Oh  whither,"  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  wander 'd,  my 
lover  ? 
Or  here  dost  thou  welter  and  bleed  on  the  shore  ? 

"What  voice  did  I  hear?  'tw^as  my  Henry  that 
sigh'd !" 

All  mournful  she  hasten'd,  nor  wander'd  she  far. 
When  bleeding,  and  low,  on  the  heath  she  descried, 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  her  poor  wounded  Hussarl 

From  his  bosom,  that  heaved,  the  last  torrent  was 
streaming, 

And  pale  was  his  visage,  deep  mark'd  with  a  scar! 
And  dim  was  that  eye,  once  expressively  beaming. 

That  melted  in  love,  and  that  Idndled  in  war  I 

How  smit  was  poor  Adelaide's  heart  at  the  sight ! 

How  bitter  she  wept  o'er  the  victim  of  war  I 
"  Hast  thou  come,  my  fond  Love,  this  last  sorrowful 
night, 

To  cheer  the  lone  heart  of  your  wounded  Hussar?" 

"  Thou  shalt  live,"  she  rej)hed,  "  Heaven's  mercy, 
relieving 

Each  anguishing  wound,  shall  forbid  me  to  mourn." 
"  Ah,  no !  the  last  pang  of  my  bosom  is  heaving ! 

No  light  of  the  morn  shall  to  Henrj'^  return  I 

"  Thou  charmer  of  life,  ever  tender  and  true ! 

Ye  babes  of  my  love,  that  await  me  afar!" 
His  faltering  tongue  scarce  could  murmur  adieu, 

WTien  he  sunk  in  her  arms — the  poor  wounded 
Hussar  I 


LINES 

INSCRIBED  ON  THE  MONUMENT  LATELY  FINISHED  BY 
MR.  CHAN  TREY, 

Which  has  been  erected  by  the  Widow  of  Admiral  Sir  G. 
Campbell,  K.  C.  B.  to  the  memory  of  her  Husband. 

To  him,  whose  loyal,  brave,  and  gentle  heart, 
Fulfill'd  the  hero's  and  the  patriot's  part, — 
Whose  charity,  like  that  wliich  Paul  enjoin'd, 
Was  warm,  beneficent,  and  unconfined, — 
This  stone  is  rear'd :  to  public  dutj-  true, 
The  seaman's  friend,  the  father  of  his  crew — 
Mild  in  reproof,  sagacious  in  command. 
He  spread  fraternal  zeal  throughout  his  band, 


And  led  each  arm  to  act,  each  heart  to  feel 
What  British  valor  owes  to  Britain's  weal. 
These  were  his  public  virtues : — but  to  trace 
His  private  life's  fair  purity  and  grace. 
To  paint  the  traits  that  drew  affection  strong 
From  friends,  an  ample  and  an  ardent  throng. 
And,  more,  to  speak  his  memory's  grateful  claim 
On  her  who  mourns  him  most,  and  bears  his  name- 
O'ercomes  the  trembling  hand  of  widow'd  grief, 
O'ercomes  the  heart,  unconscious  of  relief, 
Save  in  Religion's  high  and  holy  trust. 
Whilst  placing  their  memorial  o'er  his  dust 


THE  BRAVE  ROLAND.' 

The  brave  Roland  ! — the  brave  Roland ! — 
False  tidings  reach'd  the  Rhenish  strand 

That  he  had  fall'n  in  fight ; 
And  thy  faithful  bosom  swoon'd  with  pain 
O  loveliest  maiden  of  Allemayne  ! 

For  the  loss  of  thine  owti  true  knight 

But  why  so  rash  has  she  ta'en  the  veil. 
In  yon  Nonnenwerder's  cloisters  pale  ? 

For  her  vow  had  scarce  been  sworn, 
And  the  fatal  mantle  o'er  her  flung. 
When  the  Drachenfells  to  a  tnimpet  rung— 

'T  was  her  own  dear  w  arrior's  horn ! 

Woe !  woe  !  each  heart  shall  bleed — shali 
She  would  have  hung  upon  his  neck, 

Had  he  come  but  yester-even  : 
And  he  had  clasp'd  those  peerless  charms 
That  shall  never,  never  fill  his  arms, 

Or  meet  him  but  in  heaven. 

Yet  Roland  the  brave — Roland  the  true — 
He  could  not  bid  that  spot  adieu  ; 

It  was  dear  still  'midst  his  woes; 
For  he  loved  to  breathe  the  neighboring  air 
And  to  think  she  blest  him  in  her  prayer, 

When  the  Halleluiah  rose.  * 

There  's  yet  one  window  of  that  pile, 
Which  he  built  above  the  Nim's  green  isle ; 

Thence  sad  and  oft  look'd  he 
(When  the  chant  and  organ  sounded  slow) 
On  the  mansion  of  his  love  below. 

For  herself  he  might  not  see. 

She  died ! — He  sought  the  battle-plain ! 
Her  image  fill'd  his  dying  brain, 

WTien  he  fell  and  wish'd  to  fall : 
And  her  name  was  in  his  latest  sigh. 
When  Roland,  the  flower  of  chivalry, 

Expired  at  Roncevall. 


I  The  tradition  which  forms  the  substance  of  these  stanzas 
is  still  pre.-prved  in  Germany.  An  ancient  tower  on  a  heicht, 
called  the  Rolandseck,  a  few  miles  above  Bonn  on  the  Rhine, 
is  shown  as  the  habitation  which  Roland  built  in  sigh^  of  a 
nunnery,  into  which  his  mistress  had  retired,  on  having  heard 
an  unfounded  account  of  his  death.  W^hatever  may  be 
thought  of  the  credibility  of  the  legend,  its  scenery  must  bfl 
recollected  with  pleasure  by  every  one  who  has  visitfd  tb« 
romantic  landscape  of  the  Drachenfells,  the  Rolandseck,  and 
the  beautiful  adjacent  islet  of  the  Rhine,  where  a  nunnery  stiC 
stands. 

]62 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


51 


THE  SPECTRE  BOAT. 

A  BALLAD. 

Light  rued  false  Ferdinand  to  leave  a  lovely  maid 

forlorn, 
Who  broke  her  heart  and  died  tq  hide  her  blushing 

cheek  from  scorn. 
One  night  he  dreamt  he  woo'd  her  in  their  wonted 

bower  of  love, 
Where  the  flowers  sprang  thick  around  them,  and  the 

birds  sang  sweet  above. 

But  the  scene  was  swiftly  changed  into  a  church- 
yard's dismal  view, 

And  her  lips  grew  black  beneath  his  kiss,  from  love's 
delicious  hue. 

What  more  he  dreamt,  he  told  to  none  ;  but,  shud- 
dering, pale,  and  dumb, 

Look'd  out  upon  the  waves,  like  one  that  knew  his 
hour  was  come. 

'Twas  now  the  dead-watch  of  the  night — the  helm 

was  lash'd  a-lee, 
And  the  ship  rode  where  Mount  ^tna  lights  the 

deep  Levantine  sea  ; 
When  beneath  its  glare   a  boat  came,  row'd  by  a 

woman  in  her  shroud, 
Who,  with  eyes  that  made  our  blood  run  cold,  stood 

up  and  spoke  aloud  : — 

"Come,   Traitor,  do^^^l,  for  whom   my  ghost  still 

wanders  unforgiven! 
Come  down,  false  Ferdinand,  for  whom  I  broke  my 

peace  with  Heaven!" — 
It  was  vain  to  hold  the  victim,  for  he  plunged  to 

meet  her  call, 
Like  the  bird  that  shrieks  and  flutters  in  the  gazing 

serpent's  thrall. 

You  may  guess  the  boldest  mariner  shrunk  daunted 

from  the  sight, 
For  the  Spectre  and  her  winding-sheet  shone  blue 

with  hideous  light ; 
Tike  a  fiery  wheel  the  boat  spun  with  the  waving  of 

her  hand, 
And  round  they  went,  and  down  they  went,  as  the 

cock  crew  from  the  land. 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS, 

ON    HER    BIRTH-DAY. 

If  any  white- wing'd  Power  above 
My  joys  and  griefs  survey, 

The  day  when  thou  wert  born,  my  love- 
He  surely  bless'd  that  day. 

I  laugh'd  (till  taught  by  thee)  when  told 

Of  Beauty's  magic  powers, 
That  ripen'd  life's  dull  ore  to  gold. 

And  changed  its  weeds  to  flowers. 

My  mind  had  lovely  shapes  portray'd ; 

But  thought  I  earth  had  one 
Could  make  ev'n  Fancy's  visions  fade 

Like  stars  before  the  sun  ? 


I  gazed,  and  felt  upon  my  lips 
Th'  unfinish'd  accents  hang : 

One  moment's  bliss,  one  burning  kiss, 
To  rapture  changed  each  pang. 

And  though  as  swift  as  lightning's  flash 
Those  tranced  moments  flew. 

Not  all  the  waves  of  time  shall  wash 
Their  memory  from  my  view. 

But  duly  shall  my  raptured  song. 

And  gladly  shall  my  eyes. 
Still  bless  this  day's  return,  as  long 

As  thou  shalt  see  it  rise. 


LINES 

ON  RECEIVING  A  SEAL  WITH  THE  CAMPBELL  CREST 
FROM  K.  M ,  BEFORE  HER  MARRIAGE. 

This  wax  returns  not  back  more  fair 
Th'  impression  of  the  gift  you  send, 

Than  sfamp'd  upon  my  thoughts  I  bear 
The  image  of  your  worth,  my  friend ! — 

We  are  not  friends  of  yesterday; — ■ 

But  poets'  fancies  are  a  little 
Disposed  to  heat  and  cool  (they  say) 

By  turns  impressible  and  brittle. 

Well !  should  its  frailty  e'er  condemn 
My  heart  to  prize  or  please  you  less, 

Your  t\^pe  is  still  the  sealing  gem. 
And  mine  the  waxen  brittleness. 

What  transcripts  of  my  weal  and  woe 
This  little  signet  yet  may  lock, — 

What  utt'rances  to  friend  or  foe. 
In  reason's  calm  or  passion's  shock ! 

What  scenes  of  life's  yet  eurtain'd  page 

May  own  its  confidential  die. 
Whose  stamp  awaits  th'  unwritten  page 

And  feelings  of  futurity ! — 

Yet  wheresoe'er  my  pen  I  lift 

To  date  th'  epistolary'  sheet, 
The  blest  occasion  of  the  gift 

Shall  make  its  recollection  sweet . 

Sent  when  the  star  that  rules  your  fates 
Hath  reach'd  its  influence  most  benign — 

When  every  heart  congratulates. 
And  none  more  cordially  than  mine. 

So  speed  my  song — mark'd  with  the  crest 
That  erst  th'  advenl'rous  Norman '  wore 

Who  won  the  Lady  of  the  West, 
The  daugh.'er  of  Macaillain  Mor. 

Crest  of  my  sires !  whose  blood  it  seal'd 
With  glory  in  the  strife  of  swords, 

Ne'er  may  the  scroll  that  bears  it  yield 
Degenerate  thoughts  or  faithless  words ! 


1  A  Norman  leader,  in  the  service  of  the  king  of  Scotland, 
married  the  heiress  of  Lochow  in  the  twelfth  century,  and  from 
him  the  Campbells  are  sprung. 

163 


52 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  little  might  I  prize  the  stone, 

ADELGITHA. 

If  it  but  typed  the  feudal  tree 

From  whence,  a  scatter'd  leaf,  I  'm  blown 

The  ordeal's  fatal  trumpet  sounded. 

In  Fortune's  mutability. 

And  sad  pale  Adelgilha  came. 

When  forth  a  valiant  champion  bounded, 

No! — but  it  tells  me  of  a  heart, 

And  slew  the  slanderer  of  her  fame. 

Allied  by  friendship's  living  tie ; 

A  prize  beyond  the  herald's  art — 

She  wept,  deliver'd  from  her  danger ; 

Our  soul-sprung  consanguinity ! 

But  when  he  knelt  to  claim  her  glove — 

^^                  "—      Jr             O                          O                ^ 

"  Seek  not,"  she  cried,  "  oh  !  gallant  stranger, 

Kath'rine  !  to  many  an  hour  of  mine 

For  hapless  Adelgitha's  love. 

Light  wings  and  sunshine  you  have  lent; 

And  so  adieu,  and  still  be  thine 

"  For  he  is  in  a  foreign  far  land 

The  all-in-all  of  life— Content ! 

Whose  arm  should  now  have  set  me  free ; 

And  I  must  wear  the  willow-  garland 

For  him  that's  dead,  or  false  to  me." 

"Nay!  say  not  that  his  faith  is  tainted!" — 

GILDEROY. 

He  raised  his  vizor — At  the  sight 

She  fell  into  his  arms  and  fainted ; 

The  last,  the  fatal  hour  is  come, 

It  was  indeed  her  own  true  knight ! 

That  bears  my  love  from  me : 

I  hear  the  dead  note  of  the  drum, 

— 

I  mark  the  gallows'  tree ! 

ABSENCE. 

The  bell  has  toll'd  :  it  shakes  my  heart ; 

The  trumpet  speaks  thy  name ; 

'T  is  not  the  loss  of  love's  assurance. 

And  must  my  Gilderoy  depart 

It  is  not  doubting  what  thou  art. 

To  bear  a  death  of  shame  ? 

But  'tis  the  too,  too  long  endurance 

Of  absence,  that  afflicts  my  heart. 

No  bosom  trembles  for  thy  doom ; 

No  mourner  wipes  a  tear; 

The  fondest  thoughts  two  hearts  can  cherish, 

The  gallows'  foot  is  all  thy  tomb, 

WTien  each  is  lonely  doom'd  to  weep. 

The  sledge  is  all  thy  bier. 

Are  fruits  on  desert  isles  that  perish. 

Or  riches  buried  in  the  deep. 

Oh,  Gilderoy!  bethought  we  then 

So  soon,  so  sad  to  part, 

What  though,  untouch'd  by  jealous  madness, 

\Vlien  first  in  Roslin's  lovely  glen 

Our  bosom's  peace  may  fall  to  wreck ; 

You  triumph'd  o'er  my  heart  ? 

Th'  undoubling  heart  that  breaks  with  sadne 

Is  but  more  slowly  doom'd  to  break. 

Your  locks  they  glitler'd  to  the  sheen, 

Your  hunter  garb  was  trim  ; 

Absence !  is  not  the  soul  torn  by  it 

And  graceful  was  the  riband  green 

From  more  than  light,  or  life,  or  breath? 

That  bound  your  manly  limb ! 

'Tis  Lethe's  gloom,  but  not  its  quiet, — 

Tlie  pain  without  the  peace  of  death ! 

Ah !  little  thought  I  to  deplore 

Those  limbs  in  fetters  boimd; 

Or  hear,  upon  the  scaffold  floor, 

The  midnight  hammer  sound. 

THE  RITTER  BANN. 

Ye  cruel,  cruel,  that  combined 

The  Ritter  Bann  from  Hungary 

The  guiltless  to  pursue  ; 

Came  back,  renown'd  in  arms, 

My  Gilderoy  was  ever  kind. 

But  scorning  jousts  of  chivalry 

He  could  not  injvu-e  you  I 

And  love  and  ladies'  charms. 

A  long  adieu !  but  where  shall  fly 

While  other  knights  held  revels,  he 

Thy  widow  all  forlorn. 

Was  wrapt  in  thoughts  of  gloom, 

When  every  mean  and  cruel  eye 

And  in  Vienna's  hostelrie 

Regards  my  woe  with  scorn  ? 

Slow  paced  his  lonely  room. 

Yes !  they  will  mock  thy  widow's  tears, 

There  enter'd  one  whose  face  he  knew, — 

And  hate  thine  orphan  boy ; 

Whose  voice,  he  was  aware. 

Alas  !  his  mfant  beauty  wears 

He  oft  at  mass  had  listen'd  to. 

The  form  of  Gilderoy. 

In  the  holy  house  of  prayer. 

Then  will  I  seek  the  dreary  mound 

'T  was  the  Abbot  of  St.  James's  monks, 

That  wraps  thy  mouldering  clay, 

A  fresh  and  fair  old  man  : 

And  weep  and  linger  on  the  ground, 

His  reverend  air  arrested  even 

And  sigh  my  heart  away. 

The  gloomy  Ritter  Bann. 

164 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


53 


But  seeing  with  him  an  ancient  dame 

Come  clad  in  Scotch  attire, 
The  Hitter's  color  went  and  came, 

And  loud  be  spoke  in  ire. 

"  Ha !  nurse  of  her  that  was  my  bane, 

Name  not  her  name  to  me ; 
I  wish  it  blotted  from  my  brain : 

Art  poor  ? — take  alms,  and  flee." 

"  Sir  Knight,"  the  abbot  interposed, 
"This  case  your  ear  demands;" 

And  the  crone  cried,  with  a  cross  inclosed 
In  both  her  trembling  hands  : 

"  Remember,  each  his  sentence  waits ; 

And  he  that  shall  rebut 
Sweet  Mercy's  suit,  on  him  the  gates 

Of  Mercy  shall  be  shut 

"  You  wedded  undispensed  by  Church, 

Your  cousin  Jane  in  Spring ; — 
In  Autumn,  when  you  went  to  search 

For  churchmen's  pardoning, 

"  Her  house  denounced  your  marriage-bund. 

Betrothed  her  to  De  Grey, 
And  the  ring  you  put  upon  her  hand 

Was  wrench'd  by  force  away. 

"  Then  wept  your  Jane  upon  my  neck, 
Crying,  '  Help  me,  nurse,  to  flee 

To  my  Howel  Bann's  Glamorgan  hills ; ' 
But  word  arrived — ah  me  ! — 

"  You  were  not  there ;  and  't  was  their  threat, 

By  foul  m.eans  or  by  fair, 
To-morrow  morning  was  to  set 

The  seal  on  her  despair. 

"  I  had  a  son,  a  sea-boy,  in 

A  ship  at  Hartland  bay ; 
By  his  aid,  from  her  cruel  kin 

I  bore  my  bird  away. 

"  To  Scotland  from  the  Devon's 

Green  myrtle  shores  we  fled  ; 
And  the  Hand  that  sent  the  ravens 

To  Elijah,  gave  us  bread. 

"  She  wrote  you  by  my  son,  but  he 

From  England  sent  us  word 
You  had  gone  into  some  far  country. 

In  grief  and  gloom  he  heard. 

"  For  they  that  wrong'd  you,  to  elude 

Your  wrath,  defamed  my  child  ; 
And  you — ay,  blush.  Sir,  as  you  should — 

Believed,  and  were  beguiled. 

"  To  die  but  at  your  feet,  she  vow'd 

To  roam  the  world ;  and  we 
Would  both  have  sped  and  begg'd  our  bread, 

But  so  it  might  not  be. 

"  For  when  the  snow-storm  beat  our  roof. 

She  bore  a  boy,  Sir  Bann, 
Who  grew  as  fair  your  likeness  proof 

As  child  e'er  grew  like  man. 


"  'T  was  smiling  on  that  babe  one  mom, 
Wliile  heath  bloom'd  on  the  moor. 

Her  beauty  struck  young  Lord  Kinghorn 
As  he  hunted  past  our  door. 

"  She  shunn'd  him,  but  he  raved  of  Jane 
And  roused  his  mother's  pride ; 

Who  came  to  us  in  high  disdain, 
•  And  Where's  the  face,'  she  cried, 

"  '  Has  witch'd  my  boy  to  wish  for  one 

So  wretched  for  his  wife  ? — 
Dost  love  thy  husband  ?    Know,  my  son 

Has  sworn  to  seek  his  life.' 

"  Her  anger  sore  dismay'd  us. 
For  our  mite  was  wearing  scant, 

And,  imless  that  dame  would  aid  us, 
There  was  none  to  aid  our  want. 

"  So  I  told  her,  weeping  bitterly, 

What  all  our  woes  had  been ; 
And,  though  she  was  a  stern  ladie, 

The  tears  stood  in  her  een. 

"  And  she  housed  us  both,  when,  cheerfully, 

My  child  to  her  had  sworn. 
That  even  if  made  a  widow,  she 

Would  never  wed  Kinghorn." 

Here  paused  the  nurse,  and  then  began 

The  abbot,  standing  by  : 
"  Three  months  ago,  a  wounded  man 

To  our  abbey  came  to  die. 

"  He  heard  me  long,  with  ghastly  eyes 

And  hand  obdurate  clench'd, 
Speak  of  the  worm  that  never  dies. 

And  the  fire  that  is  not  quench'd. 

"  At  last  by  what  this  scroll  attests 

Ho  left  atonement  brief. 
For  years  of  anguish  to  the  breasts 

His  guilt  had  wrung  with  grief 

"'There  lived,'  he  said,  '  a  fair  young  dame 

Beneath  my  mother's  roof; 
I  loved  her,  but  against  my  flame 

Her  purity  was  proof 

"  •  I  feign'd  repentance,  friendship  pure  , 

That  mood  she  did  not  check. 
But  let  her  hushand's  miniature 

Be  copied  from  her  neck. 

"  •  As  means  to  search  him,  my  deceit 

Took  care  to  him  was  borne 
Nought  but  his  picture's  counterfeit, 

And  Jane's  reported  scorn. 

"  '  The  treachery  took  ;  she  waited  wild  , 

My  slave  came  back  and  lied 
Whate'er  I  wished ;  she  clasp'd  her  child. 

And  swoon'd,  and  all  but  died. 

" '  I  felt  her  tears  for  years,  and  years 

Quench  not  my  flame,  but  stir ; 
The  very  hate  I  bore  her  mate 

Increased  my  love  for  her. 

1G5 


54 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  '  Fame  told  us  of  his  glory,  while 

Joy  flush'd  the  face  of  Jane  ; 
And  while  she  bless'd  his  name,  her  smile 

Struck  fire  unto  my  brain. 

"  '  No  fears  could  damp ;  I  reach'd  the  camp, 

Sought  out  its  champion  : 
And  if  my  broad-sword  fail'd  at  last, 

'T  was  long  and  well  laid  on. 

" '  This  wound 's  my  meed,  my  name 's  Kinghorn, 

My  foe 's  the  Ritter  Bann.' 

The  wafer  to  his  lips  was  borne, 

And  we  shrived  the  dymg  man. 

"  He  died  not  till  you  went  to  fight 

The  Turks  at  Warradein  ; 
But  I  see  my  tale  has  changed  you  pale." — 

The  abbot  went  for  wine ; 

And  brought  a  little  page,  who  pour'd 

It  out,  and  knelt  and  smiled  : — 
The  stunn'd  knight  saw  himself  restored 

To  childhood  in  his  child  ; 

And  stoop'd  and  caught  him  to  his  breast, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  wept  anon. 
And  with  a  snower  of  Kisses  press'u 

The  darling  little  one. 

"  And  where  went  Jane  V — "  To  a  nunnery.  Sir — 

Look  not  again  so  pale — 
Kinghorn's  old  dame  grew  harsh  to  her." — 

"  And  has  she  ta'en  the  veil  ? " 

"  Sit  down,  Sir,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  bar 
Rash  words." — They  sat  all  three. 

And  the  boy  play'd  with  the  knight's  broad  star, 
As  he  kept  him  on  his  knee. 

"  Think  ere  you  ask  her  dwelling-place," 

The  abbot  further  said  ; 
•  Time  draws  a  veil  o'er  beauty's  face 
More  deeo  than  cloister's  shade. 

"  Grief  may  have  made  her  what  you  can 

Scarce  love  perhaps  for  life." 
"  Hush,  abbot,"  cried  the  Ritter  Bann, 

"Or  tell  me  where 's  my  wife." 

The  priest  undid  two  doors  that  hid 

The  inn's  adjacent  room, 
And  there  a  lovely  woman  stood, 

Tears  bathed  her  beauty's  bloom. 

One  moment  may  with  blisp  repay 

Unnumber'd  hours  of  pain ; 
Such  w^as  the  throb  and  mutual  sob 

Of  the  Knight  embracing  Jane. 


THE  HARPER. 

On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was 

nigh, 
No  blithe  Irish  lad  w^as  so  happy  as  I ; 
No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 
And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  par' 
She  said  (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart). 
Oh!  remember  your  Sheelah  when  far,  far  away; 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray. 

Poor  dog!  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure. 
And  he  constantly  loved  me,  although  I  was  poor; 
When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  awaj 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,  and  the  night  was  s 
cold, 
And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 
How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of -grey, 
And  he  lick'd  me  for  kindness — my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remember'd  his  cast 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  play'd  a  sad  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray.     , 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  li 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  fiiithful  and  kind? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  more  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 


SONG. 
TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  w'eary  laborer  free ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  't  is  thou, 

That  send'st  it  from  above. 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love; 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
"WTiilst  the  landscape's  odors  rise, 
W^hilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard, 

And  songs,  when  toil  is  done. 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  vuistirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 


SONG. 
"  MEN  OF  ENGLAND." 

Me\  of  England  !  who  inherit 

Rights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood 

Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  land  and  flood  :— 

By  the  foes  ye  've  fought  uncounted, 
By  the  glorious  deeds  ye  've  done. 

Trophies  captured — breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquer'd — kingdoms  won! 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 

Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  patriotism  of  your  fathers 
Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 

166 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55 


What  are  monuments  of  bravery. 
Where  no  public  virtues  bloom  ? 

What  avail,  in  lands  of  slavery, 
Trophied  temples,  arch  and  tomb  ? 

Pageants! — Let  the  world  revere  us 
For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 

And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 
Bared  in  Freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Russel's  glory, 
Sydney's  matchless  shade  is  yours,- 

Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Azincours ! 

We  're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 
Crown'd  and  mitred  tyranny: — 

They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 
For  their  birthrights — so  will  we ! 


THE  MAID'S  REMONSTRANCE. 

Never  wedding,  ever  wooing, 
Still  a  lovelorn  heart  pursuing. 
Read  you  not  the  wrong  you  're  doing 

In  my  cheek's  pale  hue  I 
All  my  life  Avith  sorrow  strewing, 

Wed,  or  cease  to  woo. 

Rivals  banish'd,  bosoms  plighted, 
Still  our  days  are  disunited  ; 
Now  the  lamp  of  hope  is  lighted, 

Now  half  quench'd  appears, 
Damp'd,  and  wavering,  and  benighted, 

Midst  my  sighs  and  tears. 

Charms  you  call  your  dearest  blessing, 
Lips  that  thrill  at  your  caressing. 
Eyes  a  mutual  soul  confessing, 

Soon  you  11  make  them  grow 
Dim,  and  worthless  your  possessing. 

Not  with  a^e,  but  woe .' 


SONG. 


Drink  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best, 

And  if  you  nurse  a  flame 
That 's  told  but  to  her  mutual  breast, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

Enough,  while  memor^^  tranced  and  glad 

Paints  silently  the  fair. 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he 's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence  be  jest  or  boast 
From  hallow'd  thoughts  so  dear  ; 

But  drink  to  them  that  we  love  most, 
As  they  would  love  to  hear. 


SONG. 


When  Napoleon  was  flying 
From  the  field  of  Waterloo, 

A  British  soldier,  dying. 
To  his  brother  bade  adieu  I 


"  And  take,"  he  said,  "  this  token 

To  the  maid  that  owns  my  faith, 
With  the  words  that  I  have  spoken 

In  affection's  latest  breath." 
e 
Sore  moum'd  the  brother's  heart, 

When  the  youth  beside  him  fell  ; 
But  the  trumpet  warn'd  to  part. 

And  they  took  a  sad  farewell. 

There  was  many  a  friend  to  lose  him, 
For  that  gallant  soldier  sigh'd  ; 

But  the  maiden  of  his  bosom 

Wept  when  all  their  tears  were  dried 


THE  BEECH-TREE'S  PETITION. 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ' 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark  unwarming  shade  below ; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush  or  yellow  hue ; 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-bom, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive ; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour, 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound. 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground : 
By  all  that  Love  has  whisper'd  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravish'd  ear  ; 
As  Love's  ov\Ti  altar  honor  me, 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree 


SONG. 


Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child. 
And  smit  with  grief  to  view  her — 

The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled. 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 

She  's  at  the  window  many  an  hour, 

His  coming  to  discover ; 
And  her  love  look'd  up  to  Ellen's  bower 

And  she  look'd  on  her  lover — 

But  ah !  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not. 

Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling 

And  am  I  then  forgot — f()rgot  ? — 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes  ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 

167 


56 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LOVE  AND  MADNESS. 

AN  ELEGY,  WRITTEN   IN   1795. 

Hark  !  from  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower ' 
The  solemn  bell  has  toll'd  the  midnight  hour ! 
Roused  from  drear  visions  of  distemper'd  sleep, 
Poor  B k  wakes — in  solitude  to  weep ! 

"Cease,  Memory,  cease,  (the  friendless  mourner  cried) 
To  probe  the  bosom  too  severely  tried ! 
Oh !  ever  cease,  my  pensive  thoughts,  to  stray 
Through  the  bright  fields  of  Fortune's  better  day. 
When  youthful  Hope,  the  music  of  the  mind. 
Tuned  all  its  charms,  and  E n  was  kind ! 

"  Yet,  can  I  cease,  while  glows  this  trembling  frame, 

In  sighs  to  speak  thy  melancholy  name  ? 

I  hear  thy  spirit  wail  in  every  storm ! 

In  midnight  shades  I  view  thy  passing  form ! 

Pale  as  in  that  sad  hour  when  doom'd  to  feel, 

Deep  in  thy  perjured  heart,  the  bloody  steel ! 

"  Demons  of  Vengeance !  ye  at  whose  command 
I  grasp'd  the  sword  with  more  than  woman's  hand, 
Say  ye,  did  Pity's  trembling  voice  contFol, 
Or  horror  damp,  the  purpose  of  my  soul  ? 
No !  my  wild  heart  sat  smiling  o'er  the  plan. 
Till  Hate  fulfill'd  what  baffled  Love  began ! 

"  Yes ;  let  the  clay-cold  breast  that  never  knew 
One  tender  pang  to  generous  Nature  true, 
Half-mingling  pity  with  the  gall  of  scorn, 
Condemn  this  heart,  tliat  bled  in  love  forlorn ! 

And  ye,  proud  fair,  whose  soul  no  gladness  warms, 
Save  Rapture's  homage  to  your  conscious  charms ! 
Delighted  idols  of  a  gaudy  train, 
111  can  your  blunter  feelings  guess  the  pain. 
When  the  fond  faithful  heart,  inspired  to  prove 
Friendship  refined,  the  calm  delight  of  love, 
Feels  all  its  tender  strings  with  anguish  torn. 
And  bleeds  at  perjured  Pride's  inhuman  scorn ! 

•  Say,  then,  did  pitying  Heaven  condemn  the  deed, 
When  Vengeance  bade  thee,  faithless  lover!  bleed? 
Long  had  I  watch'd  thy  dark  foreboding  brow. 
What  time  thy  bosom  scorn'd  its  dearest  vow  I 
Sad,  though  I  wept  the  friend,  the  lover  changed, 
Still  thy  cold  look  was  scornful  and  estranged. 
Till,  from  thy  pity,  love,  and  shelter  throwTi, 
I  w  ander'd  hopeless,  friendless,  and  alone ! 

"Oh!  righteous  Heaven!  'twas  then  my  tortured  soul 

First  gave  to  wrath  unlimited  control ! 

Adieu  the  silent  look !  the  streaming  eye ! 

The  raurmur'd  plaint !  the  deep  heart-hea\Tng  sigh  ! 

Long-sl umbering  Vengeance  wakes  to  bitter  deeds; 

He  shrieks,  he  falls,  the  perjured  lover  bleeds ! 

Novv^  the  last  laugh  of  agony  is  o'er, 

And  pale  in  blood  he  sleeps,  to  wake  no  more ! 

"'Tis  done  !  the  flame  of  hate  no  longer  bums  : 
Nature  relents,  but,  ah !  too  late  returns ! 


Why  does  my  soul  this  gush  of  fondness  feel  ? 
Trembling  and  faint,  I  drop  tlie  guilty  steel ! 
Cold  on  my  heart  the  hand  of  terror  lies. 
And  shades  of  horror  close  my  languid  eyes ! 
"Oh  !  'twas  a  deed  of  Murder's  deepest  grain  I 

Could  B k's  soul  so  true  to  wrath  remain  ? 

A  friend  long  true,  a  once  fond  lover  fell  I — 
Where  Love  was  foster 'd  could  not  Pity  dwell  ? 

"  Unhappy  youth,  while  yon  pale  crescent  glows 
To  watch  on  silent  Nature's  deep  repose. 
Thy  sleepless  spirit,  breathing  from  the  tomb, 
Foretells  my  fate,  and  summons  me  to  come ! 
Once  more  I  see  thy  sheeted  spectre  stand, 
Roll  the  dim  eye,  and  wave  the  paly  hand ! 

"  Soon  may  this  fluttering  spark  of  vital  flame 
Forsake  its  languid  melancholy  frame! 
Soon  may  these  eyes  their  trembling  lustre  close. 
Welcome  the  dreamless  night  of  long  repose  I 
Soon  may  this  woe-worn  spirit  seek  the  bourne 
W'here,  lull'd  to  slumber,  Grief  forgets  to  mourn! 


SONG. 


1  Warwick  Castle. 


On,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 

The  one  just  suited  to  our  mind  ; 

And  if  that  one  should  be 
False,  unkind,  or  found  too  late, 
What  can  we  do  but  sigh  at  fate, 

And  sing  Woe 's  me — W' oe  's  me  I 

Love's  a  boundless  burning  waste, 
WTiere  Bliss's  stream  we  seldom  taste, 

And  still  more  seldom  flee 
Suspense's  thorns.  Suspicion's  stings  ; 
Yet  somehow  Love  a  something  brings 

That's  sweet — ev'n  when  we  sigh  'Woe's  nief 


STANZAS 
ON  THE  THREATENED  INVASION,  1803 

Our  bosoms  we  '11  bare  for  the  glorious  strife. 

And  our  oath  is  recorded  on  high. 
To  prevail  in  the  cause  that  is  dearer  than  Ufe, 

Or  crush'd  in  its  ruins  to  die ! 
Then  rise,  fellow-freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hai 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land! 

'Tis  the  home  we  hold  sacred  is  laid  to  om:  trust- 
God  bless  the  green  Isle  of  the  brave ! 

Should  a  conqueror  tread  on  our  forefathers'  dust. 
It  would  rouse  the  old  dead  from  their  grave ! 

Then  rise,  fellow-freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hai 

And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land! 

In  a  Briton's  sweet  home  shall  a  spoiler  abide — 

Profaning  its  loves  and  its  charms? 
Shall  a  Frenchman  insult  the  loved  fair  at  our  sid 

To  arms !  oh,  my  countr}%  to  arms ! 
Then  rise,  fellow-ireemen,  and  stretch  the  right  ha 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land ! 

163 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEiAIS. 


57 


Shall  a  tjTant  enslave  us,  my  countrymen ! — No ! 

His  head  to  the  sword  shall  be  given — 
A.  death-bed  repentance  be  taught  the  proud  foe, 

And  his  blood  be  an  offering  to  Heaven ! 
Then  rise,  fellow-freemen,  and  stretch  the  right  hand, 
And  swear  to  prevail  in  your  dear  native  land ! 


SONG. 


Withdraw  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers. 
Whose  touch  to  mine  is  rapture's  spell ! 

Life's  joy  for  us  a  moment  lingers, 

And  death  seems  in  the  word — farewell 

The  hour  that  bids  us  part  and  go. 

It  sounds  not  yet — oh !  no,  no,  no ! 

Time,  whilst  I  gaze  upon  thy  sweetness, 
FUes  like  a  courser  nigh  the  goal ; 

To-morrow  where  shall  be  his  fleetness, 
When  thou  art  parted  from  my  soul  ? 

Our  hearts  shall  heat,  our  tears  shall  flow, 

But  not  together, — no,  no,  no ! 


HALLOWED  GROUND. 

Vhat  's  hallow'd  ground  ?    Has  earth  a  clod 
ts  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
!y  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 
j       Erect  and  free, 
Inscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 
To  bow  the  knee  ? 

'hat's  hallow'd  ground — where,  moum'd  and  miss'd, 

"he  lips  repose  our  love  has  kiss'd  ; — 

ut  where  's  their  memory's  mansion  ?   Is 't 

Yon  church-yard's  bowers  ? 
To !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

kiss  can  consecrate  the  groimd 
i^ere  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound : 
he  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
hallow'd  down  to  earth's  profoimd, 
And  up  to  heaven ! 

ior  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  ; 
he  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
un  molten  still  in  memory's  mould; 

And  will  not  cool, 
ntil  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

Tiat  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! 
dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
■  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

iat  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 
*niose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind — 
ad  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 
5  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 


Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right? 
He  's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  hght ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ermoble  light  ? 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  !  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  space! 

The  colors  planted  face  to  face. 

The  charging  cheer. 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven ! — but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal  I 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine — 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not — 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 

Belie  the  vaunt,  * 

That  man  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 

With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan : 
But  there  's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  Heaven ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling. 
Where  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeUng, 
And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  imheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time ; 
That  man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn, 
And  reason  on  his  mortal  clime 

Immortal  dawn. 

WTiat's  hallow'd  ground  ?  'Tis  what  gives  birtb 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  I — 
Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth !  go  forth 

Earth  's  compass' d  round  ; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallow" d  ground. 

163 


68 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CAROUNE. 

PART  I. 

I  'll  bid  the  hyacinth  to  blow, 

I  '11  teach  my  grotto  green  to  be  ; 
And  sing  my  true  love,  all  below 

The  holly  bower  and  myrtle-tree. 

There  all  his  wild- wood  sweets  to  bring. 
The  sweet  south  wind  shall  wander  by, 

And  with  the  music  of  his  wing 
Delight  my  rustling  canopy. 

Come  to  my  close  and  clustering  bower, 

Thou  spirit  of  a  milder  clime. 
Fresh  with  the  dews  of  fruit  and  flower, 

Of  mountain-heath,  and  raoory  thyme. 

With  all  thy  rural  echoes  come. 

Sweet  comrade  of  the  rosy  day, 
Wafting  the  wild  bee's  gentle  hum. 

Or  cuckoo's  plaintive  roundelay. 

Wliere'er  thy  morning  breath  has  play'd, 

Whatever  isles  of  ocean  fann'd, 
Come  to  my  blossom-woven  shade, 

Thou  wandering  wind  of  fairy-land. 

For  sure  from  some  enchanted  isle. 

Where  Heaven  and  Love  their  sabbath  holds, 
Wliere  pure  and  happy  spirits  smile. 

Of  beauty's  fairest,  brightest  mould  ; 

From  some  srreen  Eden  of  the  deep, 
Where  Pleasure's  sigh  alone  is  heaved 

Where  tears  of  rapture  lovers  weep, 
Endear'd,  undoubting,  undeceived ; 

From  some  sweet  paradise  afar, 

Thy  music  wanders,  distant,  lost — 

Where  Nature  lights  her  leading  star, 
And  love  is  never  cross'd. 

Oh  gentle  gale  of  Eden  bowers, 
If  back  thy  rosy  feet  should  roam. 

To  revel  with  the  cloudless  Hours 
In  Nature's  more  propitious  home. 

Name  to  thy  loved  Elysian  groves, 
That  o'er  enchanted  spirits  twine, 

A  fairer  form  than  cherub  loves, 
And  let  the  name  be  Caroline. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Gem  of  the  crimson-color'd  Even, 

Companion  of  retiring  day. 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  Heaven, 

Beloved  star,  dost  thou  delay  ? 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  bums. 

When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows ; 

So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns. 
To  chambers  brighter  than  the  rose ; 


To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love, 
So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 

Sure  some  enamour'd  orb  above 

Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour. 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly. 

Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day. 

Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear, 

And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort. 

Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown. 

And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  Angel's  feet  to  tread  ihem  down. 

Shine  on  her  sweetly-scented  road. 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome. 

That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad. 
And  guidest  the  pilgrim  to  his  home. 

Shine,  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 

Wliere  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue. 

Where,  winnow'd  by  the  gentle  air. 
Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow, 

And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair. 

Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline, 
In  converse  sweet,  to  wander  far, 

O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 

And  thou  shall  be  my  Ruling  Star  I 


FIELD  FLOWERS. 

Ye  field  flowers !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  trc 
Yet,  wildings  of  Nature,  I  dote  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old. 
When  the  earth  teem'd  around  me  with  fairy  deliji 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups  gladden'd  ray  sk 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 

Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and  echoing  strei 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  ball 
^Vhile  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in  sun.';hine  ren 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's : 

Made  music  that  sweeten'd  the  calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 
Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  little  wildings  of  Ji- 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell. 
Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  f 
When  the  magic  of  Nature  first  breathed  on  my  n  a 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Ev'n  now  what  aflfection  the  violet  awakes  ; 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  la.i, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore ! 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks, 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  bib 

In  the  vetches  that  tancled  their  shore  ! 

170      ■ 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


59 


Elarth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  fear 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom  ; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage. 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  lomb. 


STANZAS 
ON  THE  BATTLE  OF  NAVARINO. 

Hearts  of  oak  that  have  bravely  deliver'd  the  brave. 
And  uplifted  old  Greece  from  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
T  was  the  helpless  to  help,  and  the  hopeless  to  save. 

That  your  thunderbolts  swept  o'er  the  brine  ; 
And  as  long  as  yon  sun  shall  look  do\%'n  on  the  wave, 

The  light  of  your  glory  shall  shine. 

For  the  guerdon  ye  sought  with  your  bloodshed  and  toil, 
Was  it  slaves,  or  dominion,  or  rapine,  or  spoil  ? 
No !  your  lofty  emprize  was  to  fetter  and  foil 

The  uprooter  of  Greece's  domain ! 
When  he  tore  the  last  remnant  of  food  from  her  soil, 

Till  her  famish'd  sank  pale  as  the  slain ! 

Yet,  Navarin's  heroes  !  does  Christendom  breed 
The  base  hearts  that  will  question  the  fame  of  your 

deed  ? 
Are  they  men  ? — let  ineffable  scorn  be  their  meed, 

And  oblivion  shadow  their  graves ! — 
Are  they  women  ? — to  Turkish  serails  let  them  speed ! 

And  be  mothers  of  Mussulman  slaves. 

Abettors  of  massacre !  dare  ye  deplore 

That  the  death  shriek  is  silenced  on  Hellas's  shore  ? 

That  the  mother  aghast  sees  her  offspring  no  more 

By  the  hand  of  Infanticide  grasp'd  ? 
And  that  stretch'd  on  yon  billows  distain'd  by  their  gore 

Missolonghi's  assassins  have  gasp'd  ? 

Prouder  scene  never  hallow'd  war's  pomp  to  the  mind, 
Than  when  Christendom's  pennons  woo'd  social  the 

wind. 
And  the  flower  of  her  brave  for  the  combat  combined, 

Their  watch-word,  humanity's  vow  ; — 
Not  a  sea-boy  that  fought  in  that  cause,  but  mankind 

Owes  a  garland  to  honor  his  brow ! 

Nor  grudge,  by  our  side,  that  to  conquer  or  fall, 
Came  the  hardy  rude  Russ,  and  the  high-mettled  Gaul ; 
For  whose  was  the  genius,  that  plann'd  at  its  call, 

Where  the  whirlwind  of  battle  should  roll  ? 
All  were  brave !  but  the  star  of  success  over  all 

Was  the  light  of  our  Codrington's  soul. 

That  star  of  thy  day-spring,  regenerate  Greek ! 
Dimm'd  the  Saracen's  moon,  and  struck  pallid  his 

cheek : 
In  its  fast  flushing  morning  thy  Muses  shall  speak 

When  their  lore  and  their  lutes  they  reclaim : 
And  the  first  of  their  songs  from  Parnassus's  peak 

Shall  be  "  Glory  to  Codrington's  name  ! " 


LINES 
ON  LEAVING  A  SCENE  IN  BAVARIA. 
Adieu  the  woods  and  waters'  side, 

Imperial  Danube's  rich  domain ! 
Adieu  the  grotto,  wild  and  wide, 

The  rocks  abrupt,  and  grassy  plain ! 


For  pallid  Autumn  once  again 
Hath  swell'd  each  torrent  of  the  hill ; 
Her  clouds  collect,  her  shadows  sail. 
And  watery  winds,  that  sweep  the  vale 
Grow  loud  and  louder  still. 

But  not  the  storm,  dethroning  fast 
Yon  monarch  oak  of  massy  pile ; 

Nor  river  roaring  to  the  blast 
Aromid  its  dark  and  desert  isle ; 
Nor  church-bell '  tolling  to  beguile 

The  cloud-born  thunder  passing  by, 
Can  sound  in  discord  to  my  soul  : 
Roll  on,  ye  mighty  waters,  roll ! 

And  rage,  thou  darken'd  sky ! 

Thy  blossoms,  now  no  longer  bright ; 

Thy  wither'd  woods,  no  longer  green; 
Yet,  Eldurn  shore,  with  dark  delight 

I  visit  thy  unlovely  scene ! 

For  many  a  sunset  hour  serene 
My  steps  have  trod  thy  mellow  dew. 

When  his  green  light  the  fire-fly  gave, 

When  Cynthia  from  the  distant  wave 
Her  twilight  anchor  drew. 

And  plow'd,  as  with  a  swelling  sail, 

The  billowy  clouds  and  starry  sea : 
Then,  w'hile  thy  hermit  nightingale 

Sang  on  his  fragrant  apple-tree, — 

Romantic,  solitary,  free. 
The  visitant  of  Eldurn's  shore. 

On  such  a  moonlight  mountain  stray'd 

As  echo'd  to  the  music  made 
By  Druid  harps  of  yore. 

Around  thy  savage  hills  of  oak, 

Around  thy  waters  bright  and  blue. 

No  hunter's  horn  the  silence  broke, 
No  dying  shriek  thine  echo  knew ; 
But  safe,  sweet  Eldurn  woods,  to  you 

The  wounded  wild  deer  ever  ran, 

Whose  myrtle  bound  their  grassy  cave. 
Whose  very  roclvs  a  shelter  gave 

From  blood-pursuing  man. 

Oh,  heart  effusions,  that  arose 

From  nightly  wanderings  cherish'd  hei< 
To  him  who  flies  from  many  woes. 

Even  homeless  deserts  can  be  dear 

The  last  and  solitary  cheer 
Of  those  that  own  no  earthly  home. 

Say — is  it  not,  ye  banish'd  race, 

In  such  a  loved  and  lonely  place 
Companionless  to  roam  ? 

Yes !  I  have  loved  thy  wild  abode. 
Unknown,  unplow'd,  untrodden  shore. 

Where  scarce  the  woodman  finds  a  road. 
And  scarce  the  fisher  plies  an  oar  : 
For  man's  neglect  I  love  thee  more ; 

That  art  nor  avarice  intrude 

To  tame  thy  torrent's  thunder-shock. 
Or  prune  thy  vintage  of  the  rock 

Magnificently  rude. 


1  In  Catholic  countries  you  often  hear  the  cburch-belLs  rong 
0  propitiate  Heaven  during  thunder-storms. 

171 


60 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Unheeded  spreads  thy  blossom'd  bud 

Its  milky  bosom  to  the  bee ; 
Unheeded  falls  along  the  flood 

Thy  desolate  and  aged  tree. 

Forsaken  scene,  how  like  to  thee 
The  fate  of  unbefriended  Worth ! 

Like  thine  her  fruit  dishonor'd  falls ; 

Like  thee  in  solitude  she  calls 
A  thousand  treasures  forth. 

O !  silent  spirit  of  the  place, 

If  lingering  with  the  ruin'd  j'ear, 

Thy  hoary  form  and  awful  face 

I  yet  might  watch  and  worship  here ! 
Thy  storm  were  music  to  mine  ear, 

Thy  wildest  walk  a  shelter  given 
Sublimer  thoughts  on  earth  to  find, 
And  share,  with  no  unhallow'd  mind, 

The  majesty  of  Heaven. 

What  though  the  bosom  friends  of  Fate, — 

Prosperity's  unweaned  brood, — 
Thy  consolations  cannot  rate, 

0  self-dependent  solitude ! 
Yet  with  a  spirit  imsubdued, 

Though  darken'd  by  the  clouds  of  Care, 
To  worship  thy  congenial  gloom, 
A  pilgrim  to  the  Prophet's  tomb 

Misfortune  shall  repair. 

On  her  the  w'orld  hath  never  smiled. 
Or  look'd  but  with  accusing  eye ; — 

All-silent  goddess  of  the  wild, 

To  thee  that  misanthrope  shall  fly ! 

1  hear  her  deep  soliloquy, 

I  mark  her  proud  but  ravaged  form. 
As  stern  she  wraps  her  mantle  round. 
And  bids,  on  winter's  bleakest  ground. 

Defiance  to  the  storm. 

Peace  to  her  banish'd  heart,  at  last, 
In  thy  dominions  shall  descend. 

And,  strong  as  beechwood  in  the  blast, 
Her  spirit  shall  refuse  to  bend  ; 
Enduring  life  without  a  friend, 

The  world  and  falsehood  left  behind. 
Thy  votary  shall  bear  elate 
(Triumphant  o'er  opposing  Fate), 

Her  dark  inspired  mind. 

But  dost  thou,  Folly,  mock  the  muse 
A  wanderer's  mountain  walk  to  sing, 

"Who  shuns  a  warring  world,  nor  wooes 
The  vulture  cover  of  its  wing  ? 
Then  fly,  thou  cowering,  shivering  thing, 

Back  to  the  fostering  world  beguiled. 
To  waste  in  self-consuming  strife 
The  loveless  brotherhood  of  life. 

Reviling  and  reviled ! 

Aw^ay,  thou  lover  of  the  race 

That  hither  chased  yon  weeping  deer ! 
If  nature's  all  majestic  face 

More  pitiless  than  man's  appear  ; 

Or  if  the  wild  winds  seem  more  drear 


Than  man's  cold  charities  below. 
Behold  around  his  peopled  plains, 
Where'er  the  social  savage  reigns. 

Exuberance  of  woe ! 

His  art  and  honors  wouldst  thou  seek 
Emboss'd  on  grandeur's  giant  walls  ? 

Or  hear  his  moral  thunders  speak 
Where  senates  light  their  airy  halls, 
Where  man  his  brother  man  enthrals ; 

Or  sends  his  whirlwind  warrants  forth 
To  rouse  the  slumbering  fiends  of  war. 
To  dye  the  blood-warm  waves  afar. 

And  desolate  the  earth  ? 

From  clime  to  clime  pursue  the  scene. 
And  mark  in  all  thy  spacious  way, 

Where'er  the  tyrant  man  has  been, 
There  Peace,  the  cherub,  cannot  stay ; 
In  wilds  and  woodlands  far  away 

She  builds  her  solitary  bower, 
Where  only  anchorites  have  trod, 
Or  friendless  men,  to  worship  God, 

Have  wander 'd  for  an  hour. 

In  such  a  far,  forsaken  vale, — 

And  such,  sweet  Eldurn  vale,  is  thine, — 

Afflicted  nature  shall  inhale 

Heaven-borrow'd  thoughts  and  joys  di\-ine 
No  longer  wish,  no  more  repine 

For  man's  neglect  or  woman's  scorn  ; — 
Then  wed  thee  to  an  exile's  lot, 
For  if  the  world  hath  loved  thee  not. 

Its  absence  may  be  borne. 


STANZAS  TO  PAINTING. 

0  THOU  by  whose  expressive  art 
Her  perfect  image  Nature  sees 

In  union  with  the  Graces  start, 
And  sweeter  by  reflection  please  ! 

In  whose  creative  hand  the  hues 

Fresh  from  yon  orient  rainbow  shine , 

1  bless  thee.  Promethean  Muse! 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine ! 

Possessing  more  than  vocal  power. 
Persuasive  more  than  poet's  tongue ; 

\\Tiose  lineage,  in  a  raptured  hour,' 
From  Love,  the  Sire  of  Nature,  sprung. 

Does  Hope  her  high  possession  meet  ? 

Is  Joy  triumphant,  Sorrow  flowTi  ? 
Sweet  is  the  trance,  the  tremor  sweet. 

When  all  we  love  is  all  our  own. 

But  oh !  thou  pulse  of  pleasure  dear. 
Slow  throbbing,  cold,  I  feel  thee  part  ; 

Lone  absence  plants  a  pang  severe, 
Or  death  inflicts  a  keener  dart. 


1  Alluding  to  Ihe  well-known  tradition  respecting  the  origin 
of  painting,  that  it  arose  from  a  young  Corinthian  female  tracing 
the  shadow  of  her  lover's  profile  on  the  wall,  as  he  lay  r'--^ 

172 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


61 


Then  for  a  beam  of  joy  to  light 
In  Memory's  sad  and  wakeful  eye ! 

Or  banish  from  the  noon  of  night 
Her  dreams  of  deeper  agony. 

Shall  song  its  witching  cadence  roll  ? 

Yea,  even  the  tenderest  air  repeat. 
That  breathed  when  soul  was  knit  to  soul, 

And  heart  to  heart  responsive  beat  ? 

What  visions  rise !  to  charm,  to  melt ! 

The  lost,  the  loved,  the  dead,  are  near! 
Oh,  hush  that  strain,  too  deeply  felt ! 

And  cease  that  solace,  too  severe! 

But  thou  serenely  silent  art ! 

By  heaven  and  love  was  taught  to  lend 
A  milder  solace  to  the  heart, 

The  sacred  image  of  a  friend. 


All  is  not  lost !  if,  yet 

To  me  that  sweet  memorial  shine  : — 
If  close  and  closer  to  my  breast 

I  hold  that  idol  all  divine. 

Or,  gazing  through  luxurious  tears, 
Melt  o'er  the  loved  departed  form, 

Till  death's  cold  bosom  half  appears 
With  hfe,  and  speech,  and  spirit  warm. 

She  looks !  she  lives !  this  tranced  hour 
Her  bright  eye  seems  a  purer  gem 

Than  sparkles  on  the  throne  of  power, 
Or  glory's  wealthy  diadem. 

Yes,  Genius,  yes !  thy  mimic  aid 
A  treasure  to  my  soul  has  given, 

Where  Beauty's  canonized  shade 

Smiles  in  the  sainted  hues  of  heaven. 

No  spectre  forms  of  pleasure  fled. 

Thy  soft'ning,  sweet'ning  tints  restore  ; 

For  thou  canst  give  us  back  the  dead, 
E'en  in  the  loveliest  looks  they  wore. 

Then  blest  be  Nature's  guardian  Muse, 
Whose  hand  her  perish'd  grace  redeems ! 

Whose  tablet  of  a  thousand  hues 
The  mirror  of  creation  seems. 

From  Love  began  thy  high  descent ; 

And  lovers,  charm'd  by  gifts  of  thine. 
Shall  bless  thee  mutely  eloquent, 

And  call  thee  brightest  of  the  Nine  ! 


DRINKING-SONG  OF  MUNICH. 

Sweet  Iser !  were  thy  simny  realm 

And  flowery  gardens  mine, 
Thy  waters  I  would  shade  with  elm 

To  prop  the  tender  vine : 
My  golden  flagons  I  would  fill 
With  rosy  draughts  from  every  hill ; 

And  rmder  every  myrtle  bower, 
My  gay  companions  should  prolong 
The  laugh,  the  revel,  and  the  song, 

To  many  an  idle  hour. 


Like  rivers  crimson'd  with  the  beam 

Of  yonder  planet  bright, 
Our  balmy  cups  should  ever  stream 

Profusion  of  delight ; 
No  care  should  touch  the  mellow  heart, 
And  sad  or  sober  none  depart ; 

For  wine  can  triumph  over  woe. 
And  Love  and  Bacchus,  brother  powers, 
Could  build  in  Iser's  sunny  bowers 

A  paradise  below. 


LINES 


P2 


ON  REVISITING  A  SCOTTISH  RIVER. 

And  call  they  this  Improvement  ? — to  have  changed 
My  native  Clyde,  thy  once  romantic  shore, 
Where  Nature's  face  is  banish'd  and  estranged, 
And  Heaven  reflected  in  thy  wave  no  more ; 
Whose  banks,  that  sweeten'd  May-day's  breath  before 
Lie  sere  and  leafless  now  in  summer's  beam, 
With  sooty  exhalations  cover'd  o'er; 
And  for  the  daisied  green-sward,  down  thy  stream 
Unsightly  brick-lanes  smoke,  and  clanking  engines 
gleam. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  swarms  the  scene  sustains ; 
One  heart  free  tasting  Nature's  breath  and  bloom 
Is  worth  a  thousand  slaves  to  Mammon's  gains. 
But  whither  goes  that  wealth,  and  gladd'ning  whomt 
See,  left  but  life  enough,  and  breathing-room 
The  hunger  and  the  hope  of  life  to  feel, 
Yon  pale  Mechanic  bending  o'er  his  loom, 
And  Childhood's  self  as  at  Ixion's  wheel, 
From  morn  till  midnight  task'd  to  earn  its  little  moaL 

Is  this  Improvement  ? — where  the  human  breed 

Degenerates  as  they  swarm  and  overflow, 

Till  Toil  grows  cheaper  than  the  trodden  weed. 

And  man  competes  with  man,  like  foe  with  foe; 

Till  Death,  that  thins  them,  scarce  seems  public  woe? 

Improvement ! — smiles  it  in  the  poor  man's  eyes, 

Or  blooms  it  on  the  cheek  of  Labor  ? — No — 

To  gorge  a  few  with  Trade's  precarious  prize. 

We  banish  rural  life,  and  breathe  unwholesome  skieB. 

Nor  call  that  e\nl  slight ;  God  has  not  given 
This  passion  to  the  heart  of  man  in  vain. 
For  Earth's  green  face,  th'  untainted  air  of  Heaven, 
And  all  the  bliss  of  Nature's  rustic  reign. 
For  not  alone  our  frame  imbibes  a  stain 
From  fetid  skies ;  the  spirit's  healthy  pride 
Fades  in  their  gloom — And  therefore  I  complain 
That  thou  no  more  through  pastoral  scenes  shouldaC 

glide, 
My  Wallace's  own  stream,  and  once  romantic  Clyde! 


LINES 

ON  REVISITING  CATHCART. 

Oh!  scenes  of  my  childhood,  and  dear  to  my  hear^ 
Ye  green-waving  woods  on  the  margin  of  Cart, 
How  blest  in  the  morning  of  life  I  have  stray'd 
By  the  stream  of  the  vale  and  the  grass-cover'd  glsule 

173 


62 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then,  then,  every  rapture  was  young  and  sincere, 
Ere  the  sunshine  of  bliss  was  bedimm'd  by  a  tear. 
And  a  sweeter  dehght  every  scene  seem'd  to  lend, 
That  the  mansion  of  peace  was  the  house  of  a  frienu. 

Now  the  scenes  of  ray  childhood  and  dear  to  ray  heart, 
All  pensive  I  visit,  and  sigh  to  depart ; 
Their  flowers  seem  to  languish,  their  beauty  to  cease, 
For  a  stranger  inhabits  the  raansion  of  peace. 

But  hush'd  be  the  sigh  that  untimely  complains, 
While  Friendship  and  all  its  enchantment  remains, 
While  it  blooms  like  the  flower  of  a  winterless  clime, 
Untainted  by  chance,  unabated  by  time. 


THE  "NAIME  UNKTs'OWN;" 
IN  IMITATION   OF  KLOPSTOCK. 
Prophetic  pencil !  wilt  thou  trace 
A  faithful  image  of  the  face. 

Or  wilt  thou  write  the  ''  Name  Unknown,' 
Ordain'd  to  bless  my  charmed  soul, 
And  all  my  future  fate  control, 
Unrivall'd  and  alone  ? 

Delicious  Idol  of  my  thought ! 
Though  sylph  or  spirit  hath  not  taught 

My  boding  heart  thy  precious  name ; 
Yet  musing  on  my  distant  fate. 
To  charms  unseen  I  consecrate 

A  visionary  flame. 

Thy  rosy  blush,  thy  meaning  eye, 
Thy  virgin  voice  of  melody, 

Are  ever  present  to  my  heart ; 
Thy  murmur'd  vows  shall  yet  be  mine, 
My  thrilling  hand  shall  raeet  with  thine. 

And  never,  never  part ! 

Then  fly,  ray  days,  on  rapid  wing, 
Till  Love  the  viewless  treasure  bring ; 

While  I,  like  conscious  Athens,  own 
A  power  in  mystic  silence  seal'd, 
A  guardian  angel  unreveal'd. 

And  bless  the  "  Name  Unknown !" 


TRAFALGAR. 

When  Frenchmen  saw,  \\-iih  coward  art, 

The  assassin  shot  of  war 
That  pierced  Britain's  noblest  heart, 

And  quench'd  her  brightest  star, 

Their  shout  was  heard, — they  triumph'd  now, 

Amidst  the  battle's  roar, 
And  thought  the  British  oak  would  bow, 

Since  Nelson  was  no  more. 

But  fiercer  flamed  old  England's  pride, 
And — mark  the  vengeance  due, 

•  Down,  dowTi,  insulting  ship,"  she  cried, 

"  To  death,  with  all  thy  crew ! 

•  So  perish  ye  for  Nelson's  blood, — 

If  deaths  like  thine  can  pay 

For  blood  so  brave,  or  ocean  wave 

Can  wash  that  crime  a  way ' " 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  SICKNESS. 

Oh,  death  I  if  there  be  quiet  in  thine  arms. 

And  I  must  cease — gently,  oh,  gently  come, 
To  me !  and  let  my  soul  learn  no  alarms. 

But  strike  me,  ere  a  shriek  can  echo,  dumb. 
Senseless,  and  breatliless. — And  thou,  sickly  life. 

If  the  decree  be  writ,  that  I  must  die, 
Do  thou  be  guilty  of  no  needless  strife, 

Nor  pull  me  do\\'nwards  to  mortality, 
WTien  it  were  fitter  I  should  take  a  flight — 

But  whither  ?  Holy  Pity,  hear,  oh  hear ! 
And  lift  me  to  some  far-oflf  skyey  sphere. 

Where  I  may  wander  in  celestial  light  : 
Might  it  be  so — then  would  my  spirit  fear 

To  quit  the  things  I  have  so  loved,  when  seen— 

The  air,  the  pleasant  sun,  the  summer  green,— 
Knowing  how  few  would  shed  one  kindly  tear, 

Or  keep  in  mind  that  I  had  ever  been  I 


LINT:S  on  THE  STATE  OF  GREECE, 

OCCASIO\ED  BY  BEING  PRESSED  TO  MAKE  IT  J 
SUBJECT  OF  POETRY,  1827. 

In  Greece's  cause  the  Muse,  you  deem, 
Ought  still  to  plead,  persisting  strong ; 

But  feel  you  not,  't  is  now  a  theme 

That  wakens  thought  too  deep  for  song  ? 

The  Christian  world  has  seen  you,  Greeks, 

Heroic  on  your  ramparts  fall  ; 
The  world  has  heard  your  widows'  shrieks, 

And  seen  your  orphans  dragg'd  in  thrall. 

Even  England  brooks  that,  reeking  hot. 
The  ruffian's  sabre  drinks  your  veins, 

And  leaves  your  thinning  remnant's  lot 
The  bitter  choice  of  death  or  chains. 

Oh !  if  we  have  nor  hearts  nor  swords 
To  snatch  you  from  the  assassins'  brand. 

Let  not  our  pity's  idle  words 

Insult  your  pale  and  prostrate  land. 

No !  be  your  cause  to  England  now, 
That  by  permitting  acts  the  wrong, 

A  thought  of  horror  to  her  brow, 
A  theme  for  blushing — not  for  song, 

To  see  her  unavenging  ships 

Ride  fast  by  Greece's  funeral  pile, 

'Tis  worth  a  curse  from  Sibyl  lips ! 
'Tis  matter  for  a  demon's  smile! 


LINES 

ON  JAMES  lY.  OF  SCOTLAND,  WHO  FELL  AT  ' 
BATTLE  OF  FLODDEN. 

TwAS  he  that  ruled  his  coim try's  heart 

With  more  than  royal  sway; 
But  Scotland  saw  her  James  depart, 

And  sadden'd  at  his  stay. 
She  heard  his  fate — she  wept  her  grief — 
That  James,  her  loved,  her  gallant  chief, 

Was  gone  for  evermore  : 
But  this  she  learnt,  that,  ere  he  fell, 
(O  men !  0  patriots !  mark  it  well), 

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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


63 


His  fellow-soldiers  round  his  fall 
Inclosed  him  Uke  a  living  will, 

Mixing  iheir  kindred  gore  ! 
Nor  was  the  day  of  Flodden  done, 
Till  they  were  slaughter'd  one  by  one  ; 

And  this  may  serve  to  show  : 
When  kings  are  patriots,  none  will  fly — 
When  such  a  Idng  was  doom'd  to  die, 

Oh  who  would  death  forego  ? 


TO  JEMIMA,  ROSE,  AND  ELEANORE, 

THREE  CELEBRATED  SCOTTISH  BEAUTIES. 

Adieu,  romance's  heroines ! 
G've  me  the  nymphs,  who  this  good  hour 
May  charm  me.  not  in  fiction's  scenes. 
But  teach  me  beauty's  living  power ; — 
My  harp,  that  has  been  mute  too  long. 
Shall  sleep  at  beauty's  name  no  more, 
So  but  your  smiles  reward  my  song, 
Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore, — 

In  whose  benignant  eyes  are  beaming 
The  rays  of  purity  and  truth ; 
Such  as  we  fancy  woman's  seeming. 
In  the  creation's  golden  youth ; — 
The  more  I  look  upon  thy  grace, 
Rosina,  I  could  look  the  more. 
But  for  Jemima's  witching  face. 
And  the  sweet  voice  of  Eleanore. 

Had  I  been  Lawrence,  kings  had  wanted 
Their  portraits,  till  I  'd  painted  yours  ; 
And  these  had  future  hearts  enchanted 
When  this  poor  verse  no  more  endures ; 
I  would  have  left  the  congress  faces, 
A  dull-eyed  diplomatic  corps. 
Till  I  had  grouped  you  as  the  graces — 
Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore. 

The  Catholic  bids  fair  saints  befriend  him ; 
Your  poet's  heart  is  Catholic  too, — 
His  rosary  shall  be  flowers  ye  send  him. 
His  saint-days  when  he  visits  you. 
And  my  sere  laurels  for  my  duty. 
Miraculous  at  your  touch  would  rise. 
Could  I  give  verse  one  trace  of  beauty 
Like  that  which  glads  me  from  your  eyes. 

Unseal'd  by  you,  these  lips  have  spoken, 

Disused  to  song  for  many  a  day  ; 

Ye  've  tuned  a  harp  whose  strings  were  broken. 

And  warm'd  a  heart  of  callous  clay ; 

So,  when  my  fancy  next  refuses 

To  twine  for  you  a  garland  more, 

Come  back  again  and  be  my  muses, 

Jemima,  Rose,  and  Eleanore. 


SONG. 

T  IS  now  the  hour — 't  is  now  the  hour 
T^o  bow  at  beauty's  shrine  ; 

Now,  whilst  our  hearts  confess  the  power 
Of  women,  wit,  and  wine ; 

And  beaming  eyes  look  on  so  bricrht, 

Wit  springs,  wine  sparkles  in  their  light. 


In  such  an  hour — in  such  an  hour. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this. 
While  pleasure's  fount  throws  up  a  showa 

Of  social  sprinkling  bliss. 
Why  does  my  bosom  heave  the  sigh 
That  mars  delight  ? — She  is  not  by  ! 
There  was  an  hour — there  was  an  houi 

When  I  indulged  the  spell. 
That  love  wound  round  me  with  a  power 

Words  vainly  try  to  tell ; — 
Though  love  has  fill'd  my  chequer'd  doom 
With  fruits  and  thorns,  and  light  and  gloom — 

Yet  there's  an  hour — there's  still  an  hour 

Whose  coming  sunshine  may 
Clear  from  the  clouds  that  hang  and  lour 

My  fortune's  future  day  : 
That  hour  of  hours  beloved  will  be 
That  hour  that  gives  thee  back  to  me ! 


LINES  TO  EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER. 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  HIS  CHILD. 

My  heart  is  with  you,  Bulwer !  and  portrays 

The  blessings  of  your  first  paternal  days ; 

To  clasp  the  pledge  of  purest,  holiest  faith, 

To  taste  one's  own  and  love-born  infant's  breath, 

I  know,  nor  would  for  worlds  forget  the  bliss. 

I  've  felt  that  to  a  father's  heart  that  kiss. 

As  o'er  its  httle  lips  you  smile  and  chng. 

Has  fragrance  which  Arabia  could  not  bring. 

Such  are  the  joys,  ill  mock'd  in  ribald  song. 

In  thought,  ev'n  fresh'ning  life  our  life-time  long. 

That  give  our  souls  on  earth  a  heaven-drawn  bloom 

Without  them  we  are  weeds  upon  a  tomb. 

Joy  be  to  thee,  and  her  whose  lot  with  thine 

Propitious  stars  saw  truth  and  passion  twine : 

Joy  be  to  her  who  in  your  rising  name 

Feels  love's  bower  brighten'd  by  the  beams  of  fame 

I  lack'd  a  father's  claim  to  her — but  knew 

Regard  for  her  young  years  so  pure  and  true, 

That,  when  she  at  the  altar  stood  your  bride, 

A  sire  could  scarce  have  felt  more  sire-like  pride 


SONG. 

When  Love  came  first  to  Earth,  the  Spring 
Spread  rose-buds  to  receive  him. 

And  bark  he  vow'd  his  flight  he  'd  wing 
To  heaven,  if  she  should  leave  him. 

But  Spring,  departing,  saw  his  faith 
Pledged  to  the  next  new-comer — 

He  revell'd  in  the  warmer  breath 
And  richer  bowers  of  Summer. 

Then  sportive  Autumn  claim'd  by  rights 

An  archer  for  her  lover. 
And  even  in  Winter's  dark,  cold  nights 

A  charm  he  could  discover. 

Her  routs  and  balls,  and  fireside  joy. 
For  this  time  were  his  reasons — 

In  short,  young  Love's  a  gallant  boy, 
That  likes  all  times  and  seasons. 
175 


64 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


DIRGE  OF  WALLACE. 

They  lighted  a  taper  at  the  dead  of  night, 

And  chanted  their  holiest  hymn  ; 
But  her  brow  and  her  bosom  were  damp  with  affrigh: 

Her  eye  was  all  sleepless  and  dim ! 
And  the  lady  of  Elderslie  w'ept  for  her  lord, 

When  a  death-watch  beat  in  her  lonely  room. 
When  her  curtain  had  shook  of  its  own  accord ; 
And  the  raven  had  flapp'd  at  her  window-board, 

To  tell  of  her  warrior's  doom  I 

*  Now  sing  you  the  death-song,  and  loudly  pray 

For  the  soul  of  my  knight  so  dear ; 
And  call  me  a  widow  this  wretched  day, 

Since  the  warning  of  God  is  here ! 
For  night-mare  rides  on  my  strangled  sleep  :•— 

The  lord  of  my  bosom  is  doom'd  to  die : 
His  valorous  heart  they  have  wounded  deep  ; 
And  the  blood-red  tears  shall  his  country  weep. 

For  Wallace  of  EldersUe  I " 

Yet  knew  not  his  country  that  ominous  hour, 

Ere  the  loud  matin-bell  was  rung, 
That  a  trumpet  of  death  on  an  English  tower 

Had  the  dirge  of  her  champion  sung  I 
When  his  dungeon  light  look'd  dim  and  red 

On  the  high-born  blood  of  a  martyr  slain, 
No  anthem  was  sung  at  his  holy  death-bed ; 
No  weeping  was  there  when  his  bosom  bled — 

And  his  heart  was  rent  in  twain ! 

Oh,  it  was  not  thus  when  his  oaken  spear 

Was  true  to  that  knight  forlorn  ; 
And  the  hosts  of  a  thousand  were  scatter'd  like  deer, 

At  the  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn  ; 
When  he  strode  on  the  wreck  of  each  well-fought  field 

With  the  yellow-hair'd  chiefs  of  his  native  land  ; 
For  his  lance  was  not  shiver'd  on  helmet  or  shield — 
And  the  sword  that  seem'd  fit  for  Archangel  to  wield. 

Was  light  in  his  terrible  hand ! 

Yet  bleeding  and  bound,  though  her  Wallace  wight 

For  his  long-loved  country  die. 
The  bugle  ne'er  sung  to  a  braver  knight 

Than  Wallace  of  Elderslie ! 
But  the  day  of  his  glory  shall  never  depart, 

His  head  tmentomb'd  shall  with  glory  be  balm'd, 
From  its  blood-streaming  altar  his  spirit  shall  start  : 
Though  the  raven  has  fed  on  his  mouldermg  heart, 

A  nobler  was  never  erabalm'd ! 


SONG. 

My  mind  is  my  kingdom,  but  if  thou  wilt  deign 
To  sway  there  a  queen  without  measure. 

Then  come,  o'er  its  wishes  and  homage  to  reign, 
And  make  it  an  empire  of  pleasure. 

Then  of  thoughts  and  emotions  each  mutinous  crowd 
That  rebell'd  at  stern  reason  and  duty, 

Returning  shall  yield  all  their  loyalty  proud 
To  the  halcyon  dominion  of  Beauty. 


SONG. 

0  CHERUB  Content !  at  thy  moss-cover'd  shrine, 

1  'd  all  the  gay  hopes  of  my  bosom  resign, 
I  'd  part  with  ambition  thy  vot'ry  to  be. 

And  breathe  not  a  sigh  but  to  friendship  and  thee  I 

But  thy  presence  appears  from  my  wishes  to  fly, 
Like  the  gold-color'd  clouds  on  the  verge  of  the  sky  ; 
No  lustre  that  hangs  on  the  greon  willow-tree, 
Is  so  sweet  as  the  smile  of  thy  favor  to  me. 

In  the  pulse  of  my  heart  I  have  nourish'd  a  care 
That  forbids  me  thy  sweet  inspiration  to  share. 
The  noon  of  my  life  slow  departing  I  see, 
But  its  years  as  they  pass  bring  no  tidings  of  thee 

0  cherub  Content !  at  thy  moss-cover'd  shrine, 

1  would  offer  my  vows  if  Matilda  were  mine ; 
Could  I  call  her  my  own,  whom  enraptured  I  see, 
I  would  breathe  not  a  sigh  but  to  friendship  and  thee 


THE  FRIARS  OF  DIJON. 

A  TALE. 

When  honest  men  confess'd  their  sins, 
And  paid  the  church  genteelly, 

In  Burgundy  two  capuchins 
Lived  jovially  and  freely. 

They  march'd  about  from  place  to  place. 

With  shrift  and  dispensation ; 
And  mended  broken  consciences, 

Soul-tinkers  by  vocation. 

One  friar  was  Father  Boniface, 

And  he  ne'er  knew  disquiet, 
Save  when  condemn 'd  to  saying  grace 

O'er  mortiiying  diet. 

The  other  was  lean  Dominick, 
Whose  slender  form,  and  sallow. 

Would  scarce  have  made  a  candlewuck 
For  Boniface's  tallow. 

Albeit,  he  tippled  hke  a  fish, 
Though  not  the  same  potation ; 

And  mortal  man  ne'er  clear'd  a  dish 
With  nimbler  mastication. 

Those  saints  without  the  shirts  arrived, 

One  evening  late,  to  pigeon 
A  country  pair  for  alms,  that  lived 

About  a  league  from  Dijon  ; 

Whose  supper-pot  was  set  to  boil 

On  fagots  briskly  crackling  : 
The  friars  enter'd  with  a  smile 

To  Jacquez  and  to  Jacqueline. 

They  bow'd  and  bless'd  the  dame,  and  then 

In  pious  terms  besought  her 
To  give  two  holy-minded  men 

A  meal  of  bread  and  water. 

176 


MISCELL.\NEOUS  POEMS. 


G5 


For  water  and  a  crust  they  crave, 

Those  mouths  that,  even  on  Lent  days, 

Scarce  knew  the  taste  of  water,  save 
When  watering  for  dainties. 

Quoth  Jacquez,  "  That  were  sorry  cheer 

For  men  fatigued  and  dusty  ; 
And  if  you  supp'd  on  crusts,  I  fear 

You  'd  go  to  bed  but  ".rusty." 

So  forth  he  brought  a  flask  of  rich 

Wine  fit  to  feast  Silenus, 
And  viands,  at  the  sight  of  which 

They  laugh'd  Uke  two  hyenas. 

Alternately,  the  host  and  spouse 

Regaled  each  pardon-gauger. 
Who  told  them  tales  right  marvellous, 

And  lied  as  for  a  wager — 

'Bout  churches  like  balloons  convey'd 

With  aeronautic  martyrs ; 
And  wells  made  warm,  where  holy  maid 

Had  only  dipt  her  garters. 

And  if  their  hearers  gaped,  I  guess. 
With  jaws  three  inch  asunder, 

'T  was  partly  out  of  weariness. 
And  partly  out  of  wonder. 

Then  striking  up  duets,  the  freres 

Went  on  to  sing  in  matches, 
From  psalms  to  sentimental  airs, 

From  these  to  glees  and  catches. 

At  last  they  would  have  danced  outright, 
Like  a  baboon  and  tame  bear, 

If  Jacquez  had  not  drunk  Good  Night, 
And  shown  them  to  their  chamber. 

The  room  was  high,  the  host's  was  nigh : 

Had  wife  or  he  suspicion 
That  monks  would  make  a  raree-show 

Of  chinks  in  the  partition  ? — 

Or  that  two  confessors  would  come. 

Their  holy  ears  outreaching 
To  conversations  as  humdrum 

Almost  as  their  own  preaching? 

Shame  on  you,  friars  of  orders  grey. 
That  peeping  knelt,  and  wriggling, 

And  when  ye  should  have  gone  to  pray. 
Betook  yourselves  to  giggling  I 

But  every  deed  will  have  its  meed : 

And  hark !  what  information 
Has  made  the  sinners,  in  a  trice, 

Look  black  with  consternation. 

The  farmer  on  a  hone  prepares 
His  Icnife,  a  long  and  keen  one  ; 

And  talks  of  kilhng  lx)th  the  freres. 
The  fat  one  and  the  lean  one. 

To-morrow  by  the  break  of  day, 

He  orders,  too,  saltpetre 
And  pickling  tubs But,  reader,  stay, 

Our  host  was  no  man-eater. 
23 


The  priests  knew  not  that  country-folks 

Gave  pigs  tlie  name  of  friars  ; 
But  startled,  witless  of  the  joke, 

As  if  they  trod  on  briers. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  perspired  with  dread. 

The  hair  of  either  craven 
Had  stood  erect  upon  his  head. 

But  that  their  heads  were  shaven. 

"What!  pickle  and  smoke  us  limb  by  limb? 

God  curse  him  and  his  larders ! 
St.  Peter  will  bedevil  him 

If  he  saltpetre  friars. 

"  Yet,  Dominick,  to  die  I — the  bare 

Idea  shakes  one  oddly  ; 
Yes,  Boniface,  'tis  time  we  were 

Beginning  to  be  godly. 

"  Would  that,  for  absolution's  sake. 

Of  all  our  sins  and  cogging. 
We  had  a  whip  to  give  and  take 

A  last  kind  mutual  flogging. 

"  0  Dominick !  thy  nether  end 

Should  bleed  for  expiation. 
And  thou  shouldst  have,  my  dear  fat  friend 

A  glorious  flagellation." 

But  having  ne'er  a  switch,  poor  souls ! 

They  bow'd  like  weeping  willows. 
And  told  the  Saints  long  rigmaroles 

Of  all  their  peccadilloes. 

Yet,  'midst  this  penitential  plight, 
A  thought  their  fancies  tickled  ; 

'Twere  better  brave  the  window's  height 
Than  be  at  morning  pickled. 

And  so  they  girt  themselves  to  leap. 

Both  under  breath  imploring 
A  regiment  of  saints,  to  keep 

Their  host  and  hostess  snoring. 

The  lean  one  'lighted  like  a  cat. 

Then  scamper'd  off  hke  Jehu, 
Nor  stopp'd  to  help  the  man  of  fat. 

Whose  cheek  was  of  a  clay  hue — 

Who,  being  by  nature  more  design'd 

For  resting  than  for  jumping, 
Fell  hea\y  on  his  parts  behind, 

That  broaden'd  with  the  plumping. 

There  long  beneath  the  window's  sconce 

His  bruises  he  sat  pawing, 
Squat  as  the  figure  of  a  bonze 

Upon  a  Chinese  drawing. 

At  length  he  waddled  to  a  sty ; 

The  pigs,  you'd  thought  for  game-sake, 
Came  round  and  nosed  him  lovingly. 

As  if  they'd  known  their  namesake. 

Meanwhile  the  other  flew  1o  towTi, 

And  with  short  respiration 
Bray'd  like  a  donkey  up  and  down 

"  Ass-ass-ass-assination  I " 

177 


66 


CAMPBELL'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Men  left  their  beds,  and  night-capp'd  heads 
Popp'd  out  from  every  casement ; 

The  cats  ran  frighten'd  on  the  leads ; 
Dijon  was  all  amazement. 

Doors  bang'd,  dogs  bay'd,  and  boys  hurra'd, 
Throats  gaped  aghast  in  bare  rows, 

Till  soundest  sleeping  w-atchmen  woke, 
And  even  at  last  the  mayor  rose — 

Who,  charging  him  before  police, 

Demands  of  Dominick  surly, 
What  earthquake,  fire,  or  breach  of  peace 

INlade  all  this  hurly-burly? 

"  Ass — "  quoth  the  priest,  "  ass-assins,  sir, 
Are  (hence  a  league,  or  nigher) 

About  to  salt,  scrape,  massacre. 
And  barrel  up  a  friar." 

Soon,  at  the  magistrate's  command, 
A  troop  from  the  gens-d'armes'  house 

Of  twenty  men  rode  sword  in  hand, 
To  storm  the  bloody  farm's  house. 

As  they  were  cantering  toward  the  place. 
Comes  Jacquez  to  the  swine-yard, 

But  started  when  a  great  round  face 
Cried,  "  Rascal !  hold  thy  whinyard." 

'T  was  Boniface,  as  mad 's  King  Lear, 

Playing  antics  in  the  piggery : 
'•  And  what  the  devil  brought  you  here, 

You  mountain  of  a  friar,  eh?" 

Ah !  once  how  jolly,  now  how  wan 
And  blubber'd  with  the  vapors, 


That  frantic  capuchin  began 
To  cut  fantastic  capers — 

Crying,  "  Help !  hollo !  the  bellows  blow. 

The  pot  is  on  to  stew  me ; 
I  am  a  pretty  pig — but  no  ! 

They  shall  not  barbacue  me." 

Nor  was  this  raving  fit  a  sham  ; 

In  truth  he  was  hysteric  il, 
Until  they  brought  him  out  a  dram. 

And  that  wrought  like  a  miracle. 

Just  as  the  horsemen  halted  near, 
Crying,  "  Murderer,  stop,  ohoy,  oh ! " 

Jacquez  was  comforting  the  frere 
With  a  good  glass  of  noyau — 

Who  beckon'd  to  them  not  to  kick  up 

A  row ;  but  waxing  mellow, 
Squeezed  Jacquez'  liand,  and  with  a  hickup 

Said,  "  You  're  a  damn'd  good  fellow  " 

Explaining  lost  but  little  breath  : — 

Here  ended  all  the  matter ; 
So  God  save  Queen  Elizabeth, 

And  long  live  Henri  Quatre  ! 

The  gens-d'armes  at  the  story  broke 

Into  horse-fits  of  laughter, 
And,  as  if  they  had  known  the  joke, 

Their  horses  neigh'd  thereafter. 

Lean  Dominick,  methinks,  his  chaps 
Yawn'd weary,  worn,  and  moody, 

So  may  my  readers'  too,  perhaps, 
And  thus  I  wish  'em  good  dav 

173 


THE  END  OF  CAMPBELL'S  WORKS. 


THE 


^®^ia®^m  w®^i 


OF 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY 


(S^onttntu. 


Page 

MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  iMONTGOMERY v 

THE  WANDERE R  OF  SWITZERLAND 1 

THE  WEST  INDIES 10 

THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD 21 

GREENLAND 48 

SONGS  OF  ZION 70 

THE  PELICAN  ISLAND 88 

PRISON  AMUSEMENTS: 

Verses  to  a  Robin-Redbreast 113 

Moonlight ib. 

The  Captive  Nightingale 114 

The  Evening  Star  115 

Soliloquy  of  a  Water-Wagtail 116 

The  Pleasures  of  Imprisonment,  Epistle  I ib. 

Epistle  II.  . . .  118 

Extract  from  "  The  Bramin"  119 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS: 

The  Grave 120 

The  Lyre 121 

Remonstrance  to  Winter 122 

Song.  "  Round  Love's  Elysian  Bowers" 123 

Lines  written  under  a  drawing  of  Yardley  Oak  ib. 
Song,    "When  Friendsliip,  Love,  and  Truth 

abound" ib. 

Religion ib. 

"  The  Joy  of  Grief"-. 124 

The  Battle  of  Alexandria ib. 

The  Pillow 125 

To  the  Memory  of  Joseph  Browne 127 

The  Thunder-Storm ib. 

Ode  to  the  Volunteers 128 

The  Vigil  of  St.  Mark 129 

Hannah 130 

A  Field  Flower 131 

The  Snow-Drop ib. 

The  Ocean 132 

The  Common  Lot 133 

The  Harp  of  Sorrow 134 

Pope's  Willow ib. 

A  Walk  in  Spring 135 

A  Deed  of  Darkness 136 

The  Swiss  Cowherd's  Song  137 

The  Oak ib. 

The  Dial •. . .    ib. 

The  Roses 133 

To  Agnes ib. 

An  Epitaph ib. 

The  Old  Man's  Song ib. 

The  Glow-Worm 139 

Bolehill  Trees ib. 

The  Molehill ! ib. 

The  Cast-away  Ship 141 

The  Sequel 142 

M.S ib. 

The  Peak  Mountains 144 

To  Anne  and  Jane 145 

Ode  on  the  British  System  of  Education 146 

A  Daughter  to  her  Mother ib. 

Stanzas  on  Chatterton 147 

The  Wild  Rose s ib. 

On  Finding  the  Feathers  of  a  Linnet 148 

Sonnet,  from  P.  Salandri 149 

from  Petrarch ib. 

from  Gaetana  Passerini ib. 

from  Benedetto  dall'  Uva  ib. 

Departed  Days ib. 

Hope  150 

A  Mother's  Love 151 

The  Time-Piece ib. 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  the  Rev.  T.  Spencer  152 
Human  Life 153 


Tlie  Visible  Creation ^ 

Sonnet,  from  Gaetana  Passerini ij. 

from  Giambatista  Cotta ib, 

The  Crucifixion,  from  Crescembini 154 

The  Bible jj. 

Instruction , .    n,. 

The  Christian  Soldier jj. 

On  the  Royal  Infant 155 

A  Midnight  Thought {{,. 

A  Night  in  a  Stage-Coach ib. 

The  Reign  of  Spring 155 

The  Reign  of  Summer 157 

Incognita 159 

The  Little  Cloud I6O 

Abdallah  and  Sabat 162 

To  Britain I63 

The  Alps,  a  Reverie 165 

Questions  and  Answers 166 

Youth  Renewed ib. 

The  Bridal  and  the  Burial ib. 

Friends 167 

A  ISTother's  Lament  on  the  Death  of  her  Infant 

Daughter jj. 

The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless ib. 

The  Daisy  in  India 168 

The  Drought ib. 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend ib, 

A  Sea  Piece  ;  in  Three  Sonnets 169 

Robert  Burns ib. 

A  Theme  for  a  Poet 170 

Night 171 

Meet  again  !  ib. 

Via  Crucis,  Via  Lucis ib 

The  Pilgrim 172 

German  War-Song ib. 

Reminiscences ib. 

The  Ages  of  Man ib. 

Aspirations  of  Youth 173 

A  Hermitage ib. 

The  Falling  Leaf ib. 

On  planting  a  Tulip-Root ib. 

The  Adventure  of  a  Star 174 

A  Word  with  Myself 175 

Inscription  under  the  Picture  of  an  aged  Negro 

Woman  ib. 

Thoughts  and  Images ib 

Verses  to  the  Memory  of  the  late  Richard  Rey- 
nolds    176 

The  Climbing  Boy's  Soliloquies 179 

"  Thou,  God,  seest  me,"  Gen.  xvi.  13 184 

Sonnet;  Christ  Crucified,  from  Gabriele  Fiamma   ib. 
Sonnet;  Christ  laid  in  the  Sepulchre,  from  the 

same ib. 

A  Retrospect 185 

Make  Way  for  Liberty ! ib. 

Stanzas. — A  Race,  a  race  on  earth  we  run 186 

The  Retreat ib. 

"  Lovest  thou  me  ?"  I  hear  my  Savior  say 187 

A  Simile  on  a  Lady's  Portrait ib, 

A  Poet's  Benediction 183 

For  the  First  Leaf  of  a  Lady's  Album ib.  . 

The  First  Leaf  of  an  Album ib. 

To  a  Friend,  on  his  return  to  Ceylon 189  ) 

Short-hand ib. 

Bridal  Greetings ib.  \ 

Epitaph  on  a  Gnat ib'  i 

A  Riddle ib. 

Time  Employed,  Time  Enjoyed 190 

The  Laurustinus ib.  ■ 

Mottos  for  Albums ib. 

A  Voyage  round  the  World 191 

The  Tombs  of  the  Fathers  193. 

180 


S/Uanoiv  of  3^tixt^  JWontflomny. 


I  The  little  port  of  Irvine  in  the  county  of  Ayr- 
!  shire,  North  Britain,  was  the  place  where  James 
Montgomery  first  saw  the  day.  He  was  born  on 
the  4th  of  November,  1771.  His  father  was  one 
of  that  singular  and  exemplary  body  of  Christians 
denominated  3Ioravians,  a  sect  by  no  means  nu- 
merous in  Great  Britain,  and  least  of  all  in  Scot- 
land :  the  religious  tenets  with  which  the  subject 
;  of  the  present  memoir  was  thus  impressed  in  his 
earliest  youth,  have  tinged  his  writings,  and  been 
reflected  in  his  subsequent  conduct  through  life. 
He  did  not  long  remain  in  his  native  town,  for, 
1  at  four  years  of  age,  his  father  took  him  over 
I  to  Ireland,  his  parents  having  fixed  their  resi- 
j  dence  at  Gracehill  in  the  county  of  Antrim.  He 
!  sojourned,  however,  but  a  short  time  in  Ireland, 
ifor  his  father,  most  probably  with  the  view  of 
j  affording  him  the  benefits  either  of  a  better  edu- 
cation,  or  one  more  consistent  with  his  own  re- 
ligious tenets,  sent  him  to  England,  and  he  was 
■placed  at  a  Moravian  seminary  at  Fulnick  in 
iYorkshire,  where  he  remained  ten  years. 
I  Soon  after  the  establishment  of  Montgomery  at 
IFulnick,  his  father  and  mother  left  Ireland  for  the 
|\Vest  Indies.  The  elder  Montgomery  had  under- 
Itaken  the  duty  of  a  missionary  to  instruct  the 
jnegroes  in  the  doctrines  of  Christianity.  Both 
'father  and  mother  fell  victims  to  that  pestilential 
[climate,  the  one  in  Barbadoes,  and  the  other  in 
Tobago.  To  their  fate  it  is  the  poet  so  beautifully 
alludes  when  he  writes — 

My  father— mother— parents,  are  no  more ! 

Beneath  the  Lion  star  tbey  sleep 

Beyond  the  western  deep ; 
And  when  the  sun's  noon  glory  crests  the  waves, 
He  shines  without  a  shadow  on  their  graves  !— 

Montgomery  was  not  the  only  offspring  thus 
ileft  to  the  wide  world ;  his  parents  had  two  other 
■children,  who  were,  it  is  said,  placed  under  the 
guardianship  of  the  benevolent  body  of  Christians 
[to  which  their  parents  had  belonged.  During 
jthe  time  the  subject  of  the  present  memoir  was 
;it  Fulnick,  he  was  carefully  excluded  from  the 
World.  The  institutions  of  the  Moravian  brethren 
ire  almost  monastically  rigid.  For  ten  years  that 
ihe  was  in  this  seminary,  he  scarcely  saw  or  con- 
Versed  with  any  individual  who  was  not  of  their 

Q 


own  faith.  His  instruction  was,  however,  carefully 
attended  to,  and  he  was  taught  assiduously  the 
Greek,  Latin,  French,  and  German  languages, 
independently  of  the  common  and  inferior  ac- 
quirements deemed  necessary  to  pupils  in  every 
station  of  life. 

Before  Montgomery  had  attained  his  tenth 
year,  he  exhibited  his  inclination  for  poetry 
The  peculiar  opinions  and  discipline  of  the  Mo- 
ravians were  calculated  to  cherish  his  propensity 
for  the  Muse.  The  monotony  of  his  life,  the 
well-nigh  cloistered  seclusion  of  the  scholars,  and 
the  system  which  inculcated  the  doctrines  of  the 
brethren,  nurtured  that  sombre  and  melancholy 
bias  which  is  always  inherent  in  the  poetical 
temperament.  Tlie  indulgence  of  the  imagination 
under  such  circumstances  tends  to  render  the 
mind  exquisitely  susceptible  of  external  impres- 
sions. The  love  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  which  every 
instruction  of  the  Moravian  brethren  directs 
the  mind  of  the  pupil,  and  which  is  the  chief 
awakener  of  their  feelings,  they  making  the 
second  Person  of  the  Trinity  the  object  of  bro- 
therly  affection  as  well  as  of  adoration,  was  a 
captivating  theme  for  the  young  poet.  The  hymns 
of  the  Moravians  were  the  seducers  of  Mont- 
gomery into  the  flowery  paths  of  poesy.  Religious 
aspirations,  the  tender  affection,  the  beauty  of 
holiness,  kindled  the  love  of  sacred  song  in  his 
callow  bosom.  A  little  volume  was  soon  filled 
with  the  effusions  of  his  young  imagination,  and 
first  developed  that  genius  to  which  the  virtuous 
part  of  mankind  have  since  not  hesitated  to  do 
the  justice  it  merits.  He  knew  nothing  at  this 
time  of  the  English  poets,  for  they  were  carefully 
kept  out  of  sight  by  his  instructors,  lest  some 
dangerous  passage  should  give  a  pruriency  for 
unhallowed  and  contagious  principles.  The  little 
volume  was  therefore  wholly  his  own.  The  father 
of  one  of  the  boys  had  sent  a  volume  of  selected 
poems  from  Milton,  Thomson,  and  Young,  to 
his  son,  yet,  though  the  choicest  and  most  moral 
passages  only  were  selected,  it  was  dipt  and 
mangled  by  the  good  brethren  before  it  was  de- 
livered to  its  owner.  The  natural  consequence 
ensued, — Montgomery  clandestinely  borrowed 
books,  and  read  them  by  stealth. 

181 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


At  fourteen  years  of  age,  besides  two  manu- 
script volumes  of  his  verses,  he  had  composed  a 
mock-heroic  poem  of  a  thousand  lines,  in  three 
cantos  :  it  was  an  imitation  of  "  The  Frogs  and 
Mice"  of  Homer.  From  his  companions  and 
friends  he  received  praises  which  excited  him  to 
fresh  exertions.  He  planned  several  epic  poems, 
for  nothing  short  of  an  epic  would  satisfy  his 
craving  desire  for  literary  fame,  till  after  much 
of  resolve  and  re-resolve,  he  began  one  under 
the  title  of  "Alfred  the  Great."  Of  this  poem  he 
completed  two  books ;  the  boldness  of  the  attempt 
seems  to  have  alarmed  the  good  fathers  of  the 
Fulnick  academy.  Such  a  flight  by  a  youth  des- 
tined for  the  study  of  divinity  (the  profession 
which  they  had  in  prospect  for  their  pupil  being 
that  of  a  minister),  was  by  no  means  suitable  to 
their  ideas  of  the  fitness  of  things.  The  young 
poet  panted  for  the  great  world,  to  live  among 
and  study  mankind ;  the  brethren  strove  to  stifie 
these  desires,  and  to  lead  back  the  erring  ima- 
gination of  their  pupil  to  serious  realities,  and 
devotional  resignation.  The  world  to  him  was 
j-'et  a  pure  mystery,  while  liis  longing  desire  to 
mingle  in  it  no  discipline  could  repress.  His 
health  became  affected  in  the  contest.  The  irre- 
sistible promptings  of  genius,  however,  were 
ultimately  triumphant.  The  INIoravian  brethren, 
finding  they  could  not  succeed  in  recalling  him 
to  the  line  of  conduct  and  study  which  they 
deemed  proper  for  a  minister  of  their  persuasion, 
and  seeing  that  an  opposite  desire  was  fixing  it- 
self deeper  and  deeper  in  his  heart,  had  the  good 
sense  to  give  up  their  object,  and  to  place  him 
in  trade  with  a  brother  believer,  who  was  in 
business  at  Mirficld,  near  Wakefield,  in  the  same 
county. 

Montgomery  thus  affords  another  instance  of 
the  triumph  of  genius  over  almost  insuperable 
obstacles.  Nature  awoke  in  his  bosom  those 
mysterious  impulses  Avhich  have  been  developed 
in  many  other  minds  similarly  constituted — in 
many  other  master  spirits,  which  have  made 
to  themselves  immortal  names  in  all  ages  and 
countries,  breaking  the  gloom  in  which  the  acci- 
dents of  birth  and  fortune  may  have  placed 
them,  and  becoming  shining  lights  to  the  world. 
In  his  new  situation,  little  congenial  to  an  aspiring 
mind,  Montgomery  continued  but  a  year.  He 
had  formed  in  his  imagination  the  most  elevated 
and  erroneous  ideas  of  the  great  world ;  he  saw 
it  in  perspective,  all  glorious  and  honorable  ;  he 
panted  to  be  distinguished  among  men ;  and  full 
of  the  delusions  of  youth  in  this  respect,  in  which 
we  are  all  more  or  less  prone  to  indulge  in  the 
morning  of  life,  he  penned  a  letter  to  his  master, 
and  with  a  few  clothes  and  three  shillings  and 
sixpence  in  money  in  his  pocket,  he  left  his  dom- 


icile, to  plunge  into  that  paradise  of  honor  and 
fame  which  fancy  had  so  gorgeously  depicted. 
He  was  not  an  articled  apprentice,  and  therefore 
he  violated  no  contract  by  his  elopement.  He 
was  at  this  time  but  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  thus 
young  he  cast  himself  upon  fortune,  a  wild  and 
inexperienced  adventurer. 

The  usual  result  followed.  T'le  world  had  ap- 
peared  a  fairy  picture  in  his  imagination,  but  it 
proved  in  reality  to  be  just  what  it  is,  a  region 
of  struggles  and  disappointments.  On  the  fourth 
day  after  his  departure  from  Fulnick,  he  found 
himself  obliged  to  enter  into  a  situation  similar 
to  that  which  he  had  held  but  a  short  time  pre- 
viously, at  a  place  called  Wash.  From  thence 
he  wrote  to  his  late  employer  and  demanded  a 
character,  for  he  had  hitherto  preserved  his 
own  without  the  slightest  moral  taint.  The  mas- 
ter  consulted  his  Moravian  friends,  who  respect- 
ed the  virtues  and  talents  of  Montgomery,  and 
agreed  to  give  him  any  character  necessary,  but 
desired  that  he  might  be  invited  to  return  to 
them.  The  worthy  man  set  off  accordingly,  and 
met  Montgomery  in  an  inn-yard,  on  his  arrival 
at  Wash,  and  they  rushed  at  once  by  a  sort  of 
kindi-ed  sympathy  into  each  other's  arms.  It 
was  in  vain,  however,  that  the  master  invited 
his  late  pupil  to  return,  by  the  most  flattering 
offers  of  profit ;  the  young  poet  resisted  them 
all.  The  benefactor  was  not  the  less  kind.  He 
supplied  his  wants ;  sent  him  the  clothes  and 
property  he  had  left  in  his  possession,  and  gave 
him  a  testimonial  of  his  esteem  in  a  written 
document  to  exhibit  when  required.  In  his  new 
situation  he  remained  about  a  year,  "during  which 
period  he  punctually  fulfilled  the  duties  of  hig 
station ;  but  nursed  at  the  same  time  the  sora 
bre  character  which  his  peculiar  religious  educa 
tion,  and  the  bent  of  his  genius,  both  contributed 
to  encourage. 

Mr.  Harrison,  a  bookseller  of  Paternoster-row 
having  received  a  volume  of  his  poems  in  manu 
script,  before  he  quitted  Wash  for  London,  tool 
him  on  his  arrival  into  his  employ,  and  recom 
mended  him  to  cultivate  his  talents,  which  ii(  ■ 
time,  he  told  him,  he  had  no  doubt  would  rende, 
him  distinguished.    The  toil  of  a   bookseller' 
clerk,  in  the  dingy  purlieus  of  the  Row,  was 
complete   cure   for   Montgomery's   delusion  re 
specting   the   great  world,  its  glorious  honor; 
and  all  its  bright  dreams  of  immortality.  Havin  • 
in  vain  endeavored  to  induce    a  bookseller    1. 
treat  with  him  for  a  prose  tale,  he  left  I\Ir.  Ha 
rison's  employ  at  the  end  of  eight  months,  an 
returned  into  Yorkshire  to  the  situation  he  lin 
previously  held.    It  is  no  slight  proof  of  Men 
gomery's  excellent  character  and  disposition,  th 
he  won  the  affection  of  his  employers  succc 


182 


1 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


vu 


Bively,  who  all  treated  him  like  a  son.  So  strong 
was  the  attachment  of  his  master  at  Wash, 
that  even  in  the  future  troubles  of  the  poet's 
life  he  supported  him,  not  merely  with  empty 
consolation,  but  with  more  solid  and  substantial 
aid.  The  master  sought  out  his  former  servant 
when  he  was  on  the  point  of  being  tried  in  a 
court  of  law  for  libel,  and  comforted  and  con- 
soled him. 

The  bent  of  Montgomery's  mind  was  still  to- 
wards literature.  A  newspaper  which  had  been 
very  popular,  published  at  Sheffield  by  a  Mr. 
Gales,  had  received  many  of  the  yoimg  poet's 
contributions.  This  paper  was  called  the  "  Shef- 
field Register."  It  does  not  appear  that  Mont- 
gomery contributed  any  political  writing  to  its 
pages,  his  communications  being  chiefly  poetical; 
but  he  assisted  Mr.  Gales  in  his  occupation,  and 
removed  to  Sheffield  for  that  purpose  in  1792. 
In  the  following  year  Montgomery  was  assailed 
by  illness,  during  which  he  was  nursed,  and 
most  kindly  treated,  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Gales, 
having  been,  as  usual,  successful  in  winning  the 
sympathies  of  those  around  him.  It  was  not 
long  afler  this  that  a  political  prosecution  was  in- 
stituted against  the  proprietor  of  the  "  Sheffield 
Register,"  and  Mr.  Gales  left  England  to  avoid  a 
prosecution.  At  that  time  the  quailing  cause  of 
arbitrary  authority,  and  divine  political  right,  was 
making  its  last  struggles  against  freedom  and 
common  sense.  Libels  were  sought  for,  and  pros- 
ecuted with  rigor,  and  not  even  the  most  cau- 
tious individual  of  honest  principles  could  be 
deemed  safe  from  attack.  Montgomery,  on  the 
departure  of  Mr.  Gales,  being  assisted  by  a  friend, 
became  the  publisher  of  the  newspaper  himself- 
the  name  of  which  he  changed  to  that  of  the 
"  Iris."  It  was  now  conducted  with  less  party 
violence  than  before,  w^hile  a  greater  variety  of 
miscellaneous  matter  was  to  be  found  in  its  col- 
ums.  The  cause  supported  by  Montgomery  was 
always  that  of  political  independence,  humanity, 
and  freedom.  The  tone  of  his  paper  was  ex- 
ceedingly temperate,  but  firm :  indeed  it  was  so 
moderate  as  to  give  offence  to  all  violent  party 
men  who  dealt  in  extremes,  and  imagined  the 
cause  of  liberty  could  only  be  supported  by 
noisy  declamation.  In  his  newspaper  he  had  a 
series  of  articles  inserted  under  the  title  of  "  The 
Enthusiast,"  which  attracted  particular  attention 
from  being  pictures  of  his  own  mind.  There  were 
other  articles  which  drew  much  notice,  from  the 
impress  of  genius  they  exhibited. 

Notwithstanding  the  moderation  of  our  poet- 
editor,  it  was  not  long  before  the  fangs  of  the  har- 
pies of  the  law  were  upon  him.  A  song  written 
and  prepared  for   publication  before  i\Ir.  Gales 


quitted  England,  was  unluckily  published  from 
his  office.  It  was  written  by  a  clergyman  to 
commemorate  the  destruction  of  the  Bastile  in 
1789,  and  was  sung  openly  at  Belfast  in  1792. 
The  war  broke  out  nine  months  after  it  was  writ- 
ten, and  half  the  newspapers  in  the  kingdom 
had  printed  it;  yet  the  unlucky  ballad-singer,  at 
whose  suggestion  it  was  carried  to  the  press  to 
strike  off"  a  few  copies,  was  arrested  selling  them 
at  Wakefield,  became  evidence  against  the  print- 
er, and  in  1795  Montgomery  was  found  "  guilty 
of  publishing."  This  would  not  do  for  the  ser- 
vile judges,  who  made  the  jury  re-consider  their 
verdict,  and,  after  an  hour's  hesitation,  they 
brought  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  ]Montgomery 
was  fined  twenty  pounds,  and  imprisoned  for 
three  months  in  the  Castle  of  York.  As  always 
happens  in  a  country  like  England,  when  freedom 
of  mind  is  interfered  with,  the  sufferer  is  borne 
above  persecution  by  those  honest  sympathizing 
spirits  that  step  forward  to  his  support.  Montgo- 
mery found  his  newspaper  and  business  carefully 
superintended  by  a  friend,  and  he  was  welcomed 
from  prison  as  the  victim  of  an  unjust  sentence. 
On  his  deliverance  froni  his  incarceration,  he 
resumed  his  professional  labors,  and  avoided 
every  extreme  in  politics.  He  printed  numerous 
essays  in  his  paper,  under  difix3rent  heads ;  some 
humorous,  others  serious,  but  all  agreeable  and 
entertaining.  These  essays  were  published  in  a 
volume,  long  out  of  print,  and  now  not  easily 
attainable. 

When  the  emissaries  of  the  law  lie  in  wait 
to  entangle  a  victim,  they  never  fail  to  discover 
some  charge,  that  may  be  twisted  to  bear  them 
out  in  their  object.  iMontgomery  had  scarcely 
resumed  his  duties,  when  two  men  were  killed 
in  a  riot  in  the  streets  of  Sheffield  by  the  sol- 
diery. He  gave  a  narrative  of  the  circumstances, 
correct  enough,  there  is  no  doubt ;  but  a  volun- 
teer officer,  who  was  also  a  magistrate,  feeling 
his  dignity  or  honor  hurt  by  the  statement, 
preferred  a  bill  of  indictment  for  libel  against 
the  printer.  It  was  tried  at  Doncaster  in  January 
1796.  The  defence  made  justified  the  truth  of 
the  statement  on  very  satisfactory  testimony ; 
but  in  vain — Montgomery  was  found  guilty,  and 
sentenced  to  six  months'  imprisonment  and  a 
fine  of  thirty  pounds.  It  is  remarkable,  that 
before  the  death  of  the  individual  who  was  the 
cause  of  this  prosecution,  he  seemed  conscious 
of  the  injustice  he  had  done  Montgomery,  by 
treating  him  with  sedulous  attention  after  the 
expiration  of  his  term  of  imprisonment ;  and 
once,  when  presiding  in  a  court  of  justice,  call- 
ing him  from  among  the  crowd  to  sit  by  his 
side  on  the  bench,  that  he  might  be  kept  from 

183 


VUl 


MEMOIR  OF  JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


the  annoyance  and  pressure  of  the  mob.  The 
poet  took  his  seat  accordingly;  and  it  was,  no 
doubt,  a  proud  triumph  to  his  feelings. 

During  this  imprisonment  it  was  that  he  wrote 
his  poems  entitled  "Prison  Amusements,"  though 
he  did  not  publish  them  until  1797.  In  the 
prison  he  was  well  accommodated,  and  had  every 
indulgence  afforded  him ;  a  large  yard  supplied 
him  with  an  airy  promenade.  He  is  also  said 
to  have  amused  himself  in  composing  a  work 
of  some  bulk  of  a  humorous  character,  but  which 
has  not  seen  the  light.  He  went  to  Scarborough 
for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  as  soon  as  he  was 
liberated.  This  happened  in  July  1796,  his 
health  having  been  much  affected  by  anxiety 
and  imprisonment.  It  was  from  a  visit  to  the 
same  place  subsequently,  that  he  composed  his 
poem  of  "  The  Ocean"  in  1805.  It  was  singular 
that  the  author  of  the  "  Prison  Amusements" 
should  have  suffered  that  and  other  published 
works  to  sleep  from  want  of  making  them  more 
known — he  allowed  them  to  drop  into  complete 
oblivion.  In  1806  appeared  "  The  Wanderer  of 
Switzerland,"  which,  in  spite  of  a  severe  criti- 
cism in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  conferred  upon 
him  great  and  deserved  celebrity.  It  was  not 
until  then  that  he  took  his  station  among  the 
better  order  of  his  country's  poets.  It  is  said 
he  was  on  the  point  of  publishing  another  poem 
in  preference,  which  has  not  yet  been  given  to 
the  world,  though  nearly  ready  for  the  press  at 
the  time  "The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland"  ap- 
peared. ]Mr.  BoAvyer  printed  Montgomery's  next 
work,  "  The  West  Indies,"  in  a  most  expensive 
form,  with  superb  embellishments :  nearly  ten 
thousand  copies  of  the  different  editions  were 
sold.  The  humane  feelings  of  the  author  ap- 
pear to  predominate  in  this  work;   it  is  har- 


moniously  and  touchingly  written.  The  "World 
before  the  Flood,"  which  appeared  in  1812,  is 
perhaps  the  least  popular  of  his  productions. 
In  this  work  his  wonted  piety  and  the  effects  of 
his  early  education  strongly  appear,  while  he 
has  introduced  various  enlivening  incidents  to 
break  the  uniformity  of  the  subject.  Since  this 
poem,  "  Greenland,"  "  The  Pelican  Island,"  and 
numerous  occasional  pieces,  have  dropped  from 
his  pen.  His  thoughts  are  all  remarkable  for 
their  purity.  He  is  the  poet  of  religion  and 
morality.  His  political  principles  are  those  of  a 
free  Englishman. 

In  person,  Montgomery  is  below  the  middle 
height,  and   of  slender  frame ;   his  complexion 
fair,  and  hair  yellow.    His  limbs  are  well  pro- 
portioned. There  is  a  cast  of  melancholy  over  his 
features,  unless  when  they  are  lighted  up  by  con- 
versation, and  then  his  eyes  show  all  the  fire  of 
genius.    In  manner  he  is  singularly  modest  and 
unobtrusive,  especially  among  strangers.     It  is, 
only   in   intercourse   with   his   friends   that  hei 
opens  with  a  power  and  eloquence  which  fewi 
would  expect  of  him.   Though  kind  and  amiable..' 
he  can  wound  keenly  by  wit  and   sarcasm   inl 
argument,  but  it  is  without  a  tincture  of  ill-na' 
ture,  and  he  generally  conveys  himself  the  cure- 
for  the  wounds  he  inflicts,  by  the  kindness  witl 
which  he  winds  up  his  conclusions.    As  a  poet 
he  ranks  only  in  the  second  class  of  British  living 
writers.  He  never  falls  low,  and  rarely  rises  high 
his  character  may  be  designated  as  that  of  thi 
calm   river,  rather  than  the  romantic  torrent 
but  his  course  is  peculiarly  his  own.   He  is  verv 
little  of  an  imitator,  and  deserves  immortal  ( 
in  that  he  has  written  no  line 


eulogyj 


which  dying  he  could  wish  to  blot. 


184 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


ff^sa^i  ffi©irs©©si 


IN  SIX  PARTS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


'  j  The  historical  facts  alluded  to  in  The  Wanderer 
'  |)F  Switzerland  may  be  found  in  the  Supplement  to 
'^f!oxe's  Travels,  in  Planta's  History  of  the  Helvetic 
}Confederacy,  and  in  Zschokke's  Invasion  of  Smtzer- 
and  ly  the  French,  in  1798,  translated  by  Dr.  Aikin. 


PART  I. 


Wanderer  of  Switzerland  and  his  Family,  consist- 
ing of  his  Wife,  his  Daughter,  and  her  young 
Children,  emigrating  from  their  Country,  in  con- 
sequence of  its  subjugation  by  the  French,  in  1798, 
arrive  at  the  Cottage  of  a  Shepherd,  beyond  the 
Frontiers,  where  they  are  hospitably  entertained. 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Wanderer,  whither  dost  thou  roam  ? 
Weary  wanderer,  old  and  grey ; 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  thine  home 
In  the  sunset  of  thy  day?" 

wanderer. 

"  In  the  sunset  of  my  day, 
Stranger !  I  have  lost  my  home  : 
Weary,  wandering,  old  and  grey — 
Therefore,  therefore  do  I  roam. 

"  Here  mine  arms  a  wife  enfold, 
Fainting  in  their  weak  embrace : 
There  my  daughter's  charms  behold, 
Withering  in  that  widow'd  face. 

"  These  her  infants — Oh  their  Sire, 

Worthy  of  the  race  of  Tell, 

In  the  battle's  fiercest  fire, 

—In  his  country's  battle  fell ! " 

24  Q2 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Switzerland,  then,  gave  thee  birth  ? " 

WANDERER. 

"  Ay — 't  was  Switzerland  of  yore  ; 
But,  degraded  spot  of  Earth, 
Thou  art  Switzerland  no  more  : 

"  O'er  thy  mountains  sunk  in  blood. 
Are  the  waves  of  ruin  hurl'd ; 
Like  the  waters  of  the  flood 
Rolling  round  a  buried  world." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Yet  will  Time  the  deluge  stop : 
Then  may  Switzerland  be  blest ; 
On  St.  Gothard's  *  hoary  top 
Shall  the  Ark  of  Freedom  rest." 

WANDERER. 

"  No ! — Irreparably  lost, 
On  the  day  that  made  us  slaves, 
Freedom's  Ark,  by  tempest  tost, 
Founder'd  in  the  swallowing  waves." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Welcome,  Wanderer  as  thou  art, 
All  my  blessings  to  partake  ; 
Yet  thrice  welcome  to  my  heart, 
For  thine  injured  country's  sake. 

"  On  the  western  hills  afar 
Evening  lingers  with  delight, 
While  she  views  her  favorite  star 
Brightening  on  the  brow  of  night. 

"  Here,  though  lowly  be  my  lot 
Enter  freely,  freely  share 
All  the  comforts  of  my  cot, 
Humble  shelter,  homely  fare  " 

"  Spouse,  I  bring  a  suffering  guest, 
With  his  family  of  grief; 
Give  the  weary  pilgrims  rest. 
Yield  the  Exiles  sweet  reUef " 


1  St.  Gothard  is  the  name  of  the  highest  mountain  in  the  can 
ton  of  Uri,  the  birth-place  of  Swiss  independence. 

185 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SHEPHERD  S  WIFE. 

"  I  will  yield  them  sweet  relief: 
Weary  pilgrims  !  welcome  here ; 
Welcome,  family  of  grief, 
Welcome  to  ray  warmest  cheer." 

WANDERER. 

•'  When  in  prayer  the  broken  heart 
Asks  a  blessing  from  above. 
Heaven  shall  take  the  Wanderer's  part, 
Heaven  reward  the  stranger's  love." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Haste,  recruit  the  failing  fire, 
High  the  winter-fagots  raise  ; 
See  the  crackling  flames  aspire ; 
O  how  cheerfully  they  blaze ! 

«  Mourners,  now  forget  your  cares, 
And,  till  supper-board  be  crown'd. 
Closely  draw  your  fireside  chairs  ; 
Form  the  dear  domestic  round." 

WANDERER. 

"  Host,  thy  smiling  daughters  bring. 
Bring  those  rosy  lads  of  thine  ; 
Let  them  mingle  in  the  ring 
With  these  poor  lost  babes  of  mine." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Join  the  ring,  my  girls  and  boys ; 
This  enchanting  circle,  this 
Binds  the  social  loves  and  joys  : 
'T  is  the  fairy  ring  of  bliss ! " 

WANDERER. 

•'  0  ye  loves  and  joys  !  that  sport 
In  the  faiiy  ring  of  bliss. 
Oft  with  me  ye  held  your  court : 
I  had  once  a  home  like  this ! 

"  Bountiful  my  former  lot 
As  my  native  country's  rills ; 
The  foundations  of  my  cot 
Were  her  everlasting  hills. 

"  Biit  those  streams  no  longer  pour 
Rich  abundance  round  my  lands ; 
And  my  father's  cot  no  more 
On  my  father's  mountain  stands. 

"  By  an  hundred  -winters  ;jiled. 
When  the  Glaciers,'  dark  with  death. 
Hang  o'er  precipices  wild, 
Hang — suspended  by  a  breath  : 

"  If  a  pulse  but  throb  alarm, 
Headlong  do\vn  the  steeps  they  fall ; 
— For  a  pulse  will  break  the  charm, — 
Bounding,  bursting,  burying  all. 


"  Struck  with  horror  stiff  and  pale, 
When  the  chaos  breaks  on  high, 
All  that  view  it  from  the  vale, 
All  that  hear  it  coming,  die  : — 

"  In  a  day  and  hour  accurst, 
O'er  the  wretched  land  of  Tell, 
Thus  the  GaUic  ruin  burst. 
Thus  the  Galhc  glacier  ^eW. ! " 


"  Hush  that  melancholy  strain ; 
Wipe  those  unavailing  tears  : " 

wanderer. 
«<  Nay — I  must,  I  will  complain ; 
'T  is  the  privilege  of  years  : 

•'  'T  is  the  privilege  of  Woe 
Thus  her  anguish  to  impart : 
And  the  tears  that  freely  flow 
Ease  the  agonizing  heart." 

shepherd. 
"  Yet  suspend  thy  griefs  awhile  ; 
See  the  plenteous  table  crown'd ; 
And  my  wife's  endearing  smile 
Beams  a  rosy  welcome  rovmd. 

"  Cheese,  from  mountain  dairies  prest, 
Wholesome  herbs,  nutritious  roots, 
Honey,  from  the  wild-bee's  nest, 
Cheering  wine  and  ripen'd  fruits : 

"  These,  with  soul-sustaining  bread, 
My  paternal  fields  afford  : — 
On  such  fare  our  fathers  fed  ; 
Holy  pilgrim !  bless  the  board." 


PART  II. 


After  supper,  the  Wanderer,  at  the  desire  of  his  Hon 
relates  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  his  Coimtij 
during  the  Invasion  and  Conquest  of  it  by  tl 
French,  in  connexion  with  his  own  Story. 


1  More  properly  the  Avalanches;  immense  accumulations  of 
ii;e  and  snow,  balanced  on  the  verse  of  the  monntains  in  such  | 
Bubtle  suspense,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the  natives,  the  tread  of 
»he  travp'ler  may  brins;  them  down  in  destruction  upon  him. 
The  Glac.ers  are  more  permanent  masses  of  ice.  and  formed 
rather  m  the  valleys  than  on  the  summits  of  the  Alps. 


SHEPHERD.  t 

"  Wanderer  !  bow'd  with  griefs  and  years,  j 
Wanderer,  with  the  cheek  so  pale. 
Oh  give  language  to  those  tears ! 
Tell  their  melancholy  tale." 

WANDERER. 

"  Stranger-friend,  the  tears  that  flow 
Down  the  channels  of  this  cheek, 
Tell  a  mystery  of  woe 
Which  no  human  tongue  can  speak. 

"  Not  the  pangs  of  'Hope  defeiT'd' 
My  tormented  bosom  tear : — 
On  the  tomb  of  Hope  interr'd 
Scowls  the  spectre  of  Despair. 

186 


THE  WANDERER  OF  SWITZERLAND. 


I 


"WTiere  the  Alpine  summits  rise, 
Height  o'er  height  stupendous  hurl'd ; 
Like  the  pillars  of  the  skies, 
Like  the  ramparts  of  the  world : 

"  Bom  in  Freedom's  eagle  nest, 
Rock'd  by  whirlwinds  in  their  rage, 
Nursed  at  Freedom's  stormy  breast, 
Lived  my  sires  from  age  to  age. 

"  High  o'er  Under walden's  vale, 
Where  the  forest  fronts  the  morn  ; 
Whence  the  boundless  eye  might  sail 
O'er  a  sea  of  mountains  borne  ; 

"  There  my  little  native  cot 
Peep'd  upon  my  father's  farm : — 
Oh !  it  was  a  happy  spot. 
Rich  in  every  rural  charm ! 

"  There  ray  life,  a  silent  stream, 
Glid  along,  yet  seem'd  at  rest ; 
Lovely  as  an  infant's  dream 
On  the  waking  mother's  breast 

"  Till  the  storm  that  wTeck'd  the  world, 

In  its  horrible  career. 

Into  hopeless  ruin  hurl'd 

All  this  aching  heart  held  dear. 

"  On  the  princely  towers  of  Berne 
Fell  the  Gallic  thunder-stroke ; 
To  the  lake  of  poor  Lucerne, 
All  submitted  to  the  yoke. 

"  Redixg  then  his  standard  raised, 
Drew  his  sword  on  Brunnen's  plain ; ' 
But  in  vain  his  banner  blazed. 
Reding  drew  his  sword  in  vain. 

"  ^Vhe^e  our  conquering  fathers  died, 
Where  their  awful  bones  repose, 
Thrice  the  battle's  fate  he  tried, 
Thrice  o'erthrew  his  country's  foes.' 

"  Happy  then  were  those  who  fell 
Fighting  on  their  fathers'  graves  ! 
Wretched  those  who  lived  to  tell 
Treason  made  the  victors  slaves  ! ' 

"  Thus  my  country's  life  retired. 
Slowly  driven  from  part  to  part ; 
Underwalden  last  expired, 
Underwalden  was  the  heart.* 


1  Brunnen,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  on  the  borders  of  the 
Lake  of  Uri.  where  the  first  Swiss  Patriots,  Walter  Furst  of 
Uri,  Werner  Stauffaeher  of  Schwitz,  and  Arnold  of  Melchtal 
in  Underwalden,  conspired  against  the  tyranny  of  Austria  in 
1307,  again  in  1798,  became  the  seat  of  the  Diet  of  these  three 
forest  cantons. 

2  On  the  plains  of  Morgarthen,  where  the  Swiss  gained  their 
first  decisive  victory  over  the  force  of  Austria,  and  thereby  se- 
cured the  independence  of  their  country;  Aloys  Reding,  at  the 
head  of  the  troops  of  the  little  cantons,  Uri,  Schwitz,  and  Un- 
derwalden, repeatedly  repulsed  the  invading  army  of  France. 

3  By  the  resistance  of  these  small  cantons,  the  French  Gene- 
ral Schawenbourg  was  compelled  to  respect  their  independence, 
and  gave  them  a  solemn  pledge  to  that  purport ;  but  no  sooner 
had  they  disarmed,  on  the  faith  of  this  engagement,  than  the 
enemy  came  suddenly  upon  them  with  an  immense  force ;  and 
with  threats  of  extermination  compelled  them  to  take  the  civic 
oath  to  the  new  constitution,  imposed  upon  all  Switzerland. 

4  The  inhabitants  of  the  Lower  Valley  of  Underwalden  alone 


"  In  the  valley  of  their  birth, 
Where  our  guardian  moimtains  stand; 
In  the  eye  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Met  the  warriors  of  our  land. 

"  Like  their  sires  in  olden  time, 
Arm'd  they  met  in  stern  debate  ; 
While  in  every  breast  sublime 
Glow'd  the  Spirit  of  the  State. 

"  Gallia's  menace  fired  their  blood : 
With  one  heart  and  voice  they  rose ; 
Hand  in  hand  the  heroes  stood. 
And  defied  their  faithless  foes. 

"  Then  to  heaven,  in  calm  despair. 
As  they  tum'd  the  tearless  eye, 
By  their  country's  wrongs  they  sware 
With  their  country's  rights  to  die. 

"  Albert  from  the  council  came 
(My  poor  daughter  was  his  wife : 
All  the  valley  loved  his  name ; 
Albert  was  my  staff  of  Ufe). 

"  From  the  council-field  he  came : 
All  his  noble  visage  bum'd  ; 
At  his  look  I  caught  the  flame  ; 
At  his  voice  my  youth  retum'd. 

"  Fire  from  heaven  my  heart  renew 'd. 
Vigor  beat  through  every  vein  ; 
All  the  powers,  that  age  had  hew'd, 
Started  into  strength  again. 

"  Sudden  from  my  couch  I  sprang, 
Every  limb  to  life  restored  ,• 
With  the  bound  my  cottage  rang. 
As  I  snatch'd  my  fathers'  sword. 

"  This  the  weapon  they  did  wield 
On  Morgarthen's  dreadful  day ; 
And  through  Sempach's  '  iron  field 
This  the  plowshare  of  their  way. 

"  Then,  my  spouse !  in  vain  thy  fears 
Strove  my  fury  to  restrain  ; 
O  my  daughter !  all  thy  tears, 
All  thy  children's,  were  in  vain. 

"  Quickly  from  our  hastening  foes, 
Albert's  active  care  removed. 
Far  amidst  the  eternal  snows. 
Those  who  loved  us, — those  beloved.^ 


resisted  the  French  message,  which  required  submission  to  the 
new  constitution,  and  the  immediate  surrender,  alive  or  dead,  of 
nine  of  their  leaders.  When  the  demand,  accompanied  by  a 
menace  of  destruction,  was  read  in  the  Assembly  of  the  District, 
all  the  men  of  the  Valley,  fifteen  hundred  in  number,  took  up 
arms,  and  devoted  themselves  to  perish  in  the  ruins  of  their 
country. 

1  At  the  battle  of  Sempach,  the  Austrians  presented  so  im- 
penetrable a  front  with  their  projected  spears,  that  the  Swies 
were  repeatedly  compelled  to  retire  from  the  attack,  till  a  native 
of  Underwalden,  named  Arnold  de  Winkelried,  commending 
his  family  to  his  countrymen,  sprung  upon  the  enemy,  and 
burying  as  many  of  their  spears  as  he  could  grasp  in  his  body, 
made  a  breach  in  their  line;  the  Swiss  rushed  in,  and  louted 
the  Austrians  with  a  terrible  slaughter. 

2  Many  of  the  Underwalders,  on  the  approach  of  the  French 
army,  removed  their  families  and  cattle  among  the  Higher  Alps; 
and  themselves  returned  to  join  their  brethren,  who  had  ea- 

187 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Then  our  cottage  we  forsook ; 
Yet  as  dowTi  the  steeps  we  pass'd, 
Many  an  agonizing  look 
Homeward  o'er  the  hills  we  cast. 

"  Now  we  reach'd  the  nether  glen, 
Where  in  arms  our  brethren  lay ; 
Thrice  five  hundred  fearless  men, 
Men  of  adamant  were  they ! 

"  Nature's  bulwarks,  built  by  Time, 
'Gainst  Eternity  to  stand, 
Mountains,  terribly  sublime. 
Girt  the  camp  on  either  hand. 

"  Dim  behind,  the  valley  brake 
Into  rocks  that  fled  from  \-iew ; 
Fair  in  front  the  gleaming  Lake 
RoU'd  its  waters  bright  and  blue. 

"  'Midst  the  hamlets  of  the  dale, 
Stantz,'  with  simple  grandeur  crown'd, 
Seem'd  the  Mother  of  the  vale. 
With  her  children  scatter'd  round. 

"  'Midst  the  ruins  of  the  dale 
Now  she  bows  her  hoary  head, 
Like  the  Widow  of  the  vale 
Weeping  o'er  her  children  dead. 

"  Happier  then  had  been  her  fate, 
Ere  she  fell  by  such  a  foe, 
Had  an  earthquake  sunk  her  state, 
Or  the  lightning  laid  her  low ! " 

SHEPHERD. 

"  By  the  lightning's  deadly  flash 
Would  her  foes  had  been  consumed ! 
Or  amidst  the  earthquake's  crash 
Suddenly,  ahve,  entorab'd ! 

"Why  did  justice  not  prevail?" 

WANDERER. 

"  Ah !  it  was  not  thus  to  be ! " 


"  Man  of  grief !  pursue  thy  tale 
To  the  death  of  Liberty." 


PART  in. 

ITie  Wanderer  continues  his  Narrative,  and  describes 
the  Battle  and  Massacre  of  Underwalden. 


WANDERER. 

"  From  the  valley  we  descried. 
As  the  Gauls  approach'd  our  shores. 
Keels  that  darken'd  all  the  tide, 
Tempesting  the  Lake  with  oars. 


camped  in  their  native  Valley,  on  the  borders  of  the  Lake,  and 
awaited  the  attack  of  the  enemy. 
1  The  Capital  of  Underwalden. 


"  Then  the  mountain-echoes  rang 
W^ilh  the  clangour  of  alarms  ; 
Shrill  the  signal-trumpet  sang ; 
All  our  warriors  leapt  to  arms. 

"  On  the  margin  of  the  flood. 
While  the  frantic  foe  drew  nigh, 
Grim  as  watching  wolves  we  stood, 
Prompt  as  eagles  stretch'd  to  fly 

"  In  a  deluge  upon  land 
Burst  their  overwhelming  might ; 
Back  we  hurfd  them  from  the  strand. 
Oft  returning  to  the  fight. 

"  Fierce  and  long  the  combat  held — 
Till  the  waves  were  warm  with  blood. 
Till  the  booming  waters  swell'd 
As  they  sank  beneath  the  flood.* 

"  For  on  that  triumphant  day 
Underwalden's  arms  once  more 
Broke  Oppression's  black  array, 
Dash'd  invasion  from  her  shore. 

"  Gaul's  surviving  barks  retired. 
Muttering  vengeance  as  they  fled  ; 
Hope  in  us,  by  Conquest  fired. 
Raised  our  spirits  from  the  dead. 

"  From  the  dead  our  spirits  rose. 
To  the  dead  they  soon  return 'd ; 
Bright,  on  its  eternal  close, 
Underwalden's  glory  bum'd. 

"  Star  of  Switzerland !  whose  rays 
Shed  such  sweet  expiring  light. 
Ere  the  Gallic  comet's  blaze 
Swept  thy  beauty  into  night : — 

"  Star  of  Switzerland !  thy  fame 
No  recording  Bard  hath  sung ; 
Yet  be  thine  immortal  name 
Inspiration  to  my  tongue !  ^ 

"  While  the  lingering  moon  delay'd 
In  the  wilderness  of  night, 
Ere  the  morn  awoke  the  shade 
Into  loveUness  and  light : — 

"  Gallia's  tigers,  wild  for  blood. 
Darted  on  our  sleeping  fold  ; 
Down  the  mountains,  o'er  the  flood, 
Dark  as  thunder-clouds  they  roll'd. 

"  By  the  trumpet's  voice  alarm'd. 
All  the  valley  burst  awake  ; 
All  were  in  a  moment  arm'd. 
From  the  barriers  to  the  lake. 


1  The  French  made  their  first  attack  on  the  valley  of  Under | 
vpalden  from  the  Lake:  but,  after  a  desperate  conflict,  the.j 
were  victorioOsIy  repelled,  and  two  of  their  vessels,  containing 
five  hundred  men,  perished  in  the  engaeement.  j 

2  In  the  last  and  decisive  battle,  the  Underwalders  were  overi 
powered  by  two  French  armies,  which  rushed  upon  them  fror 
the  opposite  mountains,  and  surrounded  their  camp,  while  a ' 
assault,  at  the  same  time,  was  made  upon  them  from  the  Lakf 

188  i 


THE  WANDERER  OF  SWITZERLAND. 


"  In  that  valley,  on  that  shore, 
WTien  the  graves  give  up  their  dead, 
At  the  trumpet's  voice  once  more 
Shall  those  slumberers  quit  their  bed 

"  For  the  glen  that  gave  them  birth 

Hides  their  ashes  in  its  womb : 
Oh  !  "t  is  venerable  earth, 
Freedom's  cradle,  Freedom's  tomb. 

"  Then  on  every  side  begun 
That  unutterable  fight ; 
Never  rose  the  astonish'd  sun 
On  so  horrible  a  sight 

"  Once  an  eagle  of  the  rock 
('T  was  an  omen  of  our  fate) 
Stoop'd,  and  from  my  scatter'd  flock 
Bore  a  lambldn  to  his  mate. 

"  While  the  Parents  fed  their  young, 
Lo !  a  cloud  of  vultures  lean, 
By  voracious  famine  stung, 
Wildly  screaming,  rush'd  between. 

"  Fiercely  fought  the  eagle-twain, 
Though  by  multitudes  opprest, 
Till  their  little  ones  were  slain, 
Till  they  perish'd  on  their  nest. 

"  More  unequal  was  the  fray 
Which  our  band  of  brethren  waged  ; 
More  insatiate  o'er  their  prey 
Gaul's  remorseless  vultures  raged. 

"  In  innumerable  waves, 
Svvoln  with  fury,  grim  with  blood. 
Headlong  roll'd  the  hordes  of  slaves. 
And  ingulf 'd  us  with  a  flood. 

"  In  the  whirlpool  of  that  flood. 
Firm  in  fortitude  divine, 
Like  the  eternal  rocks  we  stood, 
In  the  cataract  of  the  Rhine. ^ 

"  Till  by  tenfold  force  assail'd, 
In  a  hurricane  of  fire. 
When  at  length  our  phalanx  fail'd, 
Then  our  courage  blazed  the  higher. 

"  Broken  into  feeble  bands. 
Fighting  in  dissever'd  parts. 
Weak  and  weaker  grew  our  hands, 
Strong  and  stronger  still  our  hearts. 

"  Fierce  amid  the  loud  alarms. 
Shouting  in  the  foremost  fray. 
Children  raised  their  little  arms 
In  their  country's  evil  day. 

"  On  their  country's  dying  bed. 
Wives  and  husbands  pour'd  their  breath : 
Many  a  Youth  and  Maiden  bled, 
Married  at  thine  altar,  Death.^ 


1  At  SchafFhausen. — See  Coxe's  Travels. 

2  In  this  miserable  conflict,  many  of  the  Women  and  Chil- 
dren of  the  Underwalders  fought  in  the  ranks  by  their  Husbands, 
and  Fathers,  and  Friends,  and  fell  gloriously  for  tlieir  country. 


"  Wildly  scatter'd  o'er  the  plain, 
Bloodier  still  the  battle  grew  ; — 
Oh  ye  Spirits  of  the  slain. 
Slain  on  those  your  prowess  slew ; 

"  W^ho  shall  now  your  deeds  relate  ? 
Ye  that  fell  unwept,  unknown ; 
Mourning  for  j^our  country's  fate. 
But  rejoicing  in  your  own. 

"  Virtue,  valor,  nought  avail'd 
With  so  merciless  a  foe  ; 
When  the  nerves  of  heroes  fail'd. 
Cowards  then  could  strike  a  blow 

"  Cold  and  keen  the  assassin's  blade 
Smote  the  father  to  the  ground  ; 
Through  the  infant's  breast  convey'd 
To  the  mother's  heart  a  wound.* 

"  Underwalden  thus  expired  ; 
But  at  her  expiring  flame. 
With  fraternal  feeling  fired, 
Lo,  a  band  of  Switzers  came.^ 

"  From  the  steeps  beyond  the  lake. 
Like  a  Winter's  weight  of  snow, 
W^hen  the  huge  Lavanges  break, 
Devastating  all  below ; ' 

"  DowTi  they  rush'd  with  headlong  might, 
Swifter  than  the  panting  •wind  ; 
All  before  them  fear  and  flight, 
Death  and  silence  all  behind. 

"  How  the  forest  of  the  foe 
Bow'd  before  the  thunder-strokes, 
When  they  laid  the  cedars  low. 
When  they  overwhelm'd  the  oaks. 

"  Thus  they  hew'd  their  dreadful  way ; 
Till,  by  numbers  forced  to  jield. 
Terrible  in  death  they  lay. 
The  Avengers  of  the  Field." 


PART  IV. 

The  Wanderer  relates  the  circumstances  attending 
the  Death  of  Albert. 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Pledge  the  memory  of  the  Brave, 
And  the  Spirits  of  the  dead ; 
Pledge  the  venerable  Grave, 
Valor's  consecrated  bed. 

"  Wanderer,  cheer  thy  drooping  soul. 
This  inspiring  goblet  take  ; 
Drain  the  deep  delicious  bowl. 
For  thy  martyr'd  brethren's  sake." 


1  An  indiscriminate  massacre  followed  the  battle. 

2  Two  hundred  self-devoted  heroes  from  the  Canton  of 
Svvitz  arrived,  at^e  close  of  the  battle,  to  the  aid  of  their 
Brethren  of  Underwalden, — and  perished  to  a  man,  after  hav- 
ing slain  thrice  their  number. 

3  The  Lavanges  are  tremendous  torrents  of  melting  snow 

189 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


WANDERER. 

"  Hail ! — all  hail !  the  Patriot's  grave, 
Valor's  venerable  bed : 
Hail !  the  memory  of  the  Brave, 
Hail !  the  spirits  of  the  Dead. 

"  Time  their  triumphs  shall  proclaim, 
And  their  rich  reward  be  this, — 
ImmortaUty  of  fame, 
ImmortaUty  of  bliss." 


"  On  that  melancholy  plain, 
In  that  conflict  of  despair. 
How  was  noble  Albert  slain  ? 
How  didst  thou,  old  Warrior,  fare  ? " 

WANDERER. 

"  In  the  agony  of  strife. 
Where  the  heart  of  battle  bled, 
Where  his  country  lost  her  life, 
Glorious  Albert  bow'd  his  head. 

"  When  our  phalanx  broke  away, 
And  our  stoutest  soldiers  fell, 
— Where  the  dark  rocks  dimm'd  the  day, 
Scowling  o'er  the  deepest  dell ; 

"  There,  like  lions  old  in  blood, 
Lions  rallying  round  their  den, 
Albert  and  his  warriors  stood  ; 
We  were  few,  but  we  were  men. 

"  Breast  to  breast  we  fought  the  ground, 
Arm  to  arm  repell'd  the  foe ; 
Every  motion  was  a  wound. 
And  a  death  was  every  blow. 

"  Thus  the  clouds  of  sunset  beam 
Warmer  with  expiring  light ; 
Thus  autumnal  meteors  stream 
Redder  through  the  darkening  night 

"  Miracles  our  champions  wrought — 
Who  their  dying  deeds  shall  tell ! 
Oh  how  gloriously  they  fought! 
How  triumphantly  they  fell ! 

"  One  by  one  gave  up  the  ghost, 
Slain,  not  conquer'd, — they  died  free. 
Albert  stood, — himself  an  host : 
Last  of  all  the  Swiss  was  he. 

"  So,  when  night  with  rising  shade 
Climbs  the  Alps  from  steep  to  steep, 
Till,  in  hoary  gloom  array 'd. 
All  the  giant  mountains  sleep. 

"  High  in  heaven  their  monarch  *  stands. 
Bright  and  beauteous  from  afar, 
Shining  unto  distant  lands 
Like  a  new-created  star. 


that  tumble  from  the  tops  of  the  Alps,  and  deluge  all  the  coun- 
try before  them. 

1  Mont  Blanc  -,  which  is  so  much  higher  than  the  surround- 
ing Alps,  that  it  catches  and  retains  the  beams  of  the  sun  twenty 
viinutes  earlier  and  later  than  they,  and,  crowned  with  eternal 
ice,  may  be  seen  from  an  immense  distance,  purpling  with  his 
eastern  light,  or  crimsoned  with  his  setting  glory  while  mist  and 
obscurity  rest  ou  the  mountains  below 


"  ^^^lile  I  struggled  through  the  fight, 
Albert  was  my  sword  and  shield ; 
Till  strange  horror  quench'd  ray  sight. 
And  I  fainted  on  the  field. 

"  Slow  awakening  from  that  trance. 
When  my  soul  return'd  to  day, 
"\'anish'd  were  the  fiends  of  France, 
— But  in  Albert's  blood  I  lay. 

"  Slain  for  me,  his  dearest  breath 
On  my  lips  he  did  resign  ; 
Slain  for  me,  he  snatch'd  his  death 
From  the  blow  that  menaced  mine. 

"  He  had  raised  his  dying  head. 
And  was  gazing  on  my  face ; 
As  I  woke, — the  spirit  fled. 
But  I  felt  his  last  embrace." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Man  of  suffering !  such  a  tale 
Would  wring  tears  from  marble  eyes ! " 

WANDERER. 

"  Ha !  my  daughter's  cheek  grows  pale ! " 

wanderer's  wife. 
"  Help !  O  help !  my  daughter  dies ! " 

wanderer. 
"  Calm  thy  transports.  Oh  my  wife  ! 
Peace  I  for  these  dear  orphans'  sake ! " 

wanderer's  wife. 
"  Oh  my  joy,  my  hope,  my  life, 
Oh  my  child,  my  child,  awake!" 

WANDERER. 

"  God !  Oh  God,  whose  goodness  gives ; 
God !  whose  wisdom  takes  away — 
Spare  my  child." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  She  lives,  she  lives!" 

WANDERER. 

"  Lives  ? — my  daughter,  didst  thou  say  ? 

"  God  Almighty,  on  my  knees, 

In  the  dust  will  I  adore 

Thine  unsearchable  decrees ; 

— She  was  dead  : — she  lives  once  more." 

wanderer's    DAUGHTER. 

"  When  poor  Albert  died,  no  prayer 
Called  him  back  to  hated  life  : 
Oh  that  I  had  perish'd  there. 
Not  his  widow,  but  his  wife !" 

WANDERER. 

"  Dare  my  daughter  thus  repine  ? 
Albert,  answer  from  above  ; 
Tell  me, — are  these  infants  thine, 
Whom  their  mother  does  not  love  ? " 

wanderer's  daughter. 
"  Does  not  love  ! — my  father,  hear ; 
Hear  me,  or  my  heart  will  break ; 
Dear  is  life,  but  only  dear 
For  my  parents',  children's  sake. 

190 


THE  WANDERER  ( 

)F  SWITZERLAND.                                  7 

'  Bow'd  to  Heaven's  mysterious  will, 

"  Many  a  mother,  in  despair, 

I  am  worthy  yet  of  you ; 

Turning  up  the  ghastly  slain, 

Yes ! — I  am  a  mother  still, 

Sought  her  son,  her  hero  there, 

Though  I  feel  a  widow  too." 

Whom  she  long'd  to  seek  in  vain. 

WANDERER. 

"  Dark  the  evening  shadows  roll'd 

On  the  eye  that  gleam'd  in  death ; 
And  the  evening  dews  fell  cold 

'  Mother,  Widow,  Mourner,  all. 

\11  kind  names  in  one, — my  child  ; 
On  thy  faithful  neck  I  fall  ; 

On  the  lip  that  gasp'd  for  breath.  , 

^ss  me, — are  we  reconciled?" 

"  As  I  gazed,  an  ancient  dame. 

— She  was  childless  by  her  look, — 

wanderer's  daughter. 

With  refreshing  cordials  came  ; 

« Yes,  to  Albert  I  appeal : 

Of  her  bounty  I  partook. 

A-lbert,  answer  from  above. 

That  my  father's  breast  may  feel 

"  Then,  with  desperation  bold. 

All  his  daughter's  heart  of  love." 

Albert's  precious  corpse  I  bore 

On  these  shoulders  weak  and  old, 

shepherd's  wife. 

Bow'd  with  misery  before. 

"  Faint  and  wayworn  as  they  be 

With  the  day's  long  journey.  Sire, 

"  Albert's  angel  gave  me  strength, 

Let  thy  pilgrim  family 
Now  with  me  to  rest  retire." 

As  I  stagger'd  down  the  glen  ; 
And  I  hid  my  charge  at  length 

In  its  wildest,  deepest  den. 

wanderer. 

"  Yes,  the  hour  invites  to  sleep  ; 

"  Then,  returning  through  the  shade 

Till  the  morrow  we  must  part : 
— Nay,  my  daughter,  do  not  weep. 
Do  not  weep  and  break  my  heart. 

To  the  battle-scene,  I  sought, 
'Mongst  the  slain,  an  ax  and  spade ; 
With  such  weapons  Freemen  fought. 

"  Sorrow-soothing  sweet  repose 
On  your  peaceful  pillows  light ; 
Angel-hands  your  eye-lids  close — 
Dream  of  Paradise  to-night." 

"  Scythes  for  swords  our  youth  did  wield. 

In  that  execrable  strife  : 

Plowshares  in  that  horrid  field 

Bled  with  slaughter,  breathed  with  life. 

"  In  a  dark  and  lonely  cave. 

PART  V. 

While  the  glimmering  moon  arose. 

Thus  I  dug  my  Albert's  grave  ; 

There  his  hallow'd  limbs  repose. 

The  Wanderer,  being  left  alone  with  the  Shepherd, 

relates  his  Adventures  after  the  Battle  of  Under- 

"  Tears  then,  tears  too  long  represt, 

walden. 

Gush'd  : — they  fell  like  healing  balm, 
Till  the  whirlwind  in  my  breast, 

SHEPHERD. 

Died  into  a  dreary  calm. 

"  When  the  good  man  yields  his  breath 

"  On  the  fresh  earth's  humid  bed. 

(For  the  good  man  never  dies), 
Bright,  beyond  the  gulf  of  death, 

Where  my  martyr  lay  enshrined, 
This  forlorn,  unhappy  head. 

Lo !  the  land  of  promise  lies. 

Crazed  with  anguish,  I  reclined. 

"  Peace  to  Albert's  awful  shade. 

, 

In  that  land  where  sorrows  cease  ; 
And  to  Albert's  ashes,  laid 

"  But  while  o'er  my  weary  eyes 
Soothing  slumbers  seem'd  to  creep. 

In  the  earth's  cold  bosom,  peace." 

Forth  I  sprang,  with  strange  surprise. 
From  the  clasping  arms  of  sleep. 

wanderer. 

"  For  the  bones  of  Albert  dead 

"  On  the  fatal  field  I  lay, 

Heaved  the  turf  with  horrid  throes. 

Till  the  hour  when  twilight  pale. 
Like  the  ghost  of  dying  day. 

And  his  grave  beneath  my  head, 
Burst  asunder ; — Albert  rose ! 

Wander'd  down  the  darkening  vale. 

"  Then  in  agony  I  rose. 

And  with  horror  look'd  around. 

" '  Ha  !  my  Son — my  Son,'  I  cried, 
•  Wherefore  hast  thou  left  thy  grave?' 

Where,  embracing  friends  and  foes, 

— '  Fly,  my  Father,'  he  replied  ; 

Dead  and  dying,  strew'd  the  ground. 

'  Save  my  wife — my  children  save.' 

"  Many  a  widow  fix'd  her  eye, 

"  In  the  passing  of  a  breath 

Weeping,  where  her  husband  bled. 

This  tremendous  scene  was  o'er : 

Heedless,  though  her  babe  was  by. 

Darkness  shut  the  gates  of  Death, 

Prattling  to  his  father  dead. 

Silence  seal'd  them  as  before. 

191 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  One  pale  moment  fix'd  I  stood 
In  astonishment  severe ; 
Horror  petrified  my  blood, — 
I  was  withered  up  with  fear. 

"  Then  a  sudden  trembling  came 
O'er  my  limbs ;  I  felt  on  fire, 
Burning,  quivering  like  a  flame 
In  the  instant  to  expire." 

SHEPHERD. 

«  Rather  like  the  mountain-oak, 
Tempest-shaken,  rooted  fast, 
Grasping  strength  from  ever}'  stroke 
While  it  wrestles  with  the  blast." 

WANDERER. 

«  Ay ! — my  heart,  unwont  to  yield, 
Quickly  quell'd  the  strange  affright, 
And  undaunted  o'er  the  field 
I  began  my  lonely  flight. 

"  Loud  the  gusty  nlgh^wind  blew ; — 
Many  an  awful  pause  between, 
Fits  of  light  and  darkness  flew, 
Wild  and  sudden  o'er  the  scene. 

"  For  the  moon's  resplendent  eye 
Gleams  of  transient  glory  shed ; 
And  the  clouds,  athwart  the  sky 
Like  a  routed  army,  fled. 

"  Sounds  and  voices  fill'd  the  vale, 
Heard  alternate  loud  and  low  ; 
Shouts  of  victory  swell'd  the  gale, 
But  the  breezes  murmur'd  woe. 

"  As  I  climb'd  the  mountain's  side, 
Where  the  Lake  and  Valley  meet, 
All  my  country's  power  and  pride 
Lay  in  ruins  at  my  feet. 

"  On  that  grim  and  ghastly  plain 
Underwalden's  heart-strings  broke. 
When  she  saw  her  heroes  slain, 
And  her  rocks  receive  the  yoke. 

"  On  that  plain,  in  childhood's  hours, 
From  their  mothers'  arms  set  free. 
Oft  those  heroes  gather'd  flowers, 
Often  chased  the  wandering  bee. 

"  On  that  plain,  in  rosy  youth. 
They  had  fed  their  fathers'  flocks, 
Told  their  love,  and  pledged  their  truth. 
In  the  shadow  of  those  rocks. 

"  There,  with  shepherd's  pipe  and  song. 
In  the  merry  mingling  dance, 
Once  they  led  their  brides  along, 
Now ! -Perdition  seize  thee,  France ! ' 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Heard  not  Heaven  the  accusing  cries 
Of  the  blood  that  smoked  around, 
Wtiile  the  life-warm  sacrifice 
Palpitated  on  the  groiuid  ? " 


WANDERER. 

"  Wrath  in  silence  heaps  his  store, 
To  confound  the  guilty  foe  ; 
But  the  thimder  will  not  roar 
Till  the  flash  has  struck  the  blow. 

"  Vengeance,  vengeance  will  not  stay : 
It  shall  burst  on  Gallia's  head. 
Sudden  as  the  judgment-day 
To  the  unexpecting  dead. 

"  From  the  Revolution's  flood 
Shall  a  fiery  dragon  start ; 
He  shall  drink  his  mother's  blood. 
He  shall  eat  his  father's  heart. 

"  Nurst  by  Anarchy  and  Crime, 

He but  distance  mocks  my  sight, 

Oh  thou  great  avenger.  Time  ! 
Bring  thy  strangest  birth  to  light." 


"  Prophet !  thou  hast  spoken  well. 
And  I  deem  thy  words  divine  : 
Now  the  mournful  sequel  tell 
Of  thy  country's  woes  and  thine." 

WANDERER^ 

"  Though  the  moon's  bewnlder'd  bark. 

By  the  midnight  tempest  tost, 

In  a  sea  of  vapors  dark. 

In  a  gulf  of  clouds  was  lost ; 

"  Still  my  journey  I  pursued. 
Climbing  many  a  w^eary  steep. 
Whence  the  closing  scene  I  view'd 
With  an  eye  that  would  not  weep 

"  Stantz — a  m.elancholy  pyre — 
And  her  hamlets  blazed  behind. 
With  ten  thousand  tongues  of  fire 
Writhing,  raging  in  the  wind.' 

"  Flaming  piles,  where'er  I  turn'd. 
Cast  a  grim  and  dreadful  light ; 
Like  funereal  lamps  they  burn'd 
In  the  sepulchre  of  night ; 

"  While  the  red  illumined  flood, 
With  a  hoarse  and  hollow  roar, 
Seem'd  a  lake  of  Uving  blood. 
Wildly  weltering  on  the  shore. 

"  'Midst  the  mountains  far  away. 
Soon  I  spied  the  sacred  spot, 
Whence  a  slow  consuming  ray, 
GHmmer'd  from  my  native  cot. 

"  At  the  sight  my  brain  was  fired. 
And  afresh  my  heart's  wounds  bled ; 

Still  I  gazed  : the  spark  expired- 

Nature  seem'd  extinct : — I  fled. 


1  The  town  of  Stantz,  and  the  surrounding  villages,  were 
burnt  by  the  French  on  the  night  after  the  battle  of  Underwal- 
den,  and  the  beautiful  valley  was  converted  into  a  wilderness. 

192 


THE  WANDERER  OF  SWITZERLAND. 


"  Fled  ;  and,  ere  the  noon  of  dav, 
Reach'd  the  lonely  goat-herd's  nest. 
Where  my  wife,  my  children  lay — 
Husband — Father think  the  rest.' 


PART  YI. 


The  Wanderer  informs  the  Shepherd  that,  after  the 
example  of  many  of  his  Countrj'men  flying  from 
the  tyranny  of  France,  it  is  his  intention  to  settle 
in  some  remote  province  of  America. 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Wanderer,  whither  wouldst  thou  roam  ; 
To  what  region  far  away 
Bend  thy  steps  to  find  a  home, 
In  the  twilight  of  thy  day  ? " 

WANDERER. 

"  In  the  twilight  of  my  day, 
I  am  hastening  to  the  West ; 
There  my  weary  limbs  to  lay, 
Where  the  sun  retires  to  rest. 

•'  Far  beyond  the  Atlantic  floods, 
Stretch'd  beneath  the  evening  sky, 
Realms  of  mountains,  dark  with  woods, 
In  Columbia's  bosom  lie. 

"  There,  in  glens  and  caverns  rude, 
Silent  since  the  world  began, 
Dwells  the  virgin  Solitude, 
Unbetray'd  by  faithless  man  j 

"  Where  a  tyrant  never  trod, 
Where  a  slave  was  never  known, 
But  where  Nature  worships  God 
In  the  wilderness  alone  : 

"  — Thither,  thither  would  I  roam  ; 
There  my  children  may  be  free ; 
I  for  them  will  find  a  home. 
They  shall  find  a  grave  for  me. 

"  Though  my  fathers'  bones  afar 
In  their  native  land  repose. 
Yet  beneath  the  twilight  star 
Soft  on  mine  the  turf  shall  close. 

"Though  the  mould  that  wraps  my  clay 
When  this  storm  of  life  is  o'er. 
Never  since  creation  lay 
On  a  human  breast  before ; — 

"  Yet  in  sweet  communion  there, 
When  she  follows  to  the  dead. 
Shall  my  bosom's  partner  share 
Her  poor  husband's  lowly  bed. 

"Albert's  babes  shall  deck  our  grave. 
And  my  daughter's  duteous  tears 
Bid  the  flowery  verdure  wave 
Through  the  winter-waste  of  years." 
25  R 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Long  before  thy  sun  descend, 
May  thy  woes  and  w  anderings  cease  ; 
Late  and  lovely  be  tliine  end; 
Hope  and  triumph,  joy  and  peace  ! 

"  As  our  lakes,  at  day's  decline. 
Brighten  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
May  thy  latest  moments  shine 
Through  the  night-fall  of  the  tomb." 

WANDERER. 

"  Though  our  parent  perish'd  here, 
Like  the  Phoenix  on  her  nest, 
Lo  I  new-fledged  her  wings  appear. 
Hovering  in  the  golden  West. 

"  Thither  shall  her  sons  repair. 
And  beyond  the  roaring  main 
Find  their  native  country  there, 
Find  their  Switzerland  again. 

"  Mountains,  can  ye  chain  the  will  ? 
Ocean,  canst  thou  quench  the  heart  ? 
No ;  I  feel  my  country  still, 
Liberty!  where'er  thou  art. 

"  Thus  it  was  in  hoary  time, 
When  our  fathers  sallied  forth, 
Full  of  confidence  sublime. 
From  the  famine-wasted  North.' 

" '  Freedom,  in  a  land  of  rocks 
Wild  as  Scandina-via,  give. 
Power  Eternal !  where  our  flocks 
And  our  little  ones  may  live.' 

"  Thus  they  pray'd  ; a  sacred  hand 

Led  them  by  a  path  unknown, 
To  that  dear  delightful  land 
Which  I  yet  must  call  my  own. 

"  To  the  Vale  of  Switz  they  came 
Soon  their  meliorating  toil 
Gave  the  forests  to  the  flame. 
And  their  ashes  to  the  soil. 

"  Thence  their  ardent  labors  spread. 
Till  above  the  mountain-snows 
Towering  beauty  show'd  her  head, 
And  a  new  creation  rose  ! 

"  So,  in  regions  wild  and  wide, 
We  will  pierce  the  savage  woods, 
Clothe  the  rocks  in  purple  pride, 
Plow  the  vallevs,  tame  the  floods  : 


1  There  is  a  tradition  among;  the  Swiss,  that  they  are  de 
scended  from  the  ancient  Scandinavians;  amon?  whom,  in  a 
remote  age,  there  arose  so  grievous  a  famine,  that  it  was  de- 
termined in  the  assembly  of  the  Nation,  that  every  tenth  man 
and  his  family  should  quit  their  country,  and  seek  a  new  pos 
session.  Six  thousand,  chosen  by  lot,  thus  emigrated  at  once 
from  the  North.  They  prayed  to  God  to  conduct  them  to  a  land 
like  their  own,  where  they  might  dwell  in  freedom  and  quiet, 
findins  food  for  their  families,  and  pasture  for  their  cattle.  God, 
says  the  tradition,  led  them  to  a  valley  among  the  Alps,  where 
they  cleared  away  the  forests,  built  the  town  of  Switz,  and 
afterwards  peopled  and  cultivated  the  cantons  of  Uri  and  Under- 
walden. 

193 


10 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Till  a  beauteous  inland  isle, 
By  a  forest-sea  embraced, 
Shall  make  Desolation  smile 
In  the  depth  of  his  own  waste. 

"  There,  unenvied  and  unknown, 
We  shall  dwell  secure  and  free, 
In  a  countrj-  all  our  own. 
In  a  land  of  Liberty." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Yet  the  woods,  the  rocks,  the  streams, 
Unbeloved,  shall  bring  to  mind. 
Warm  with  Evening's  purple  beams, 
Dearer  objects  left  behind  ; 

"  And  thy  native  country's  song, 
Caroll'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
When  new  echoes  shall  prolong, 
— Simple,  tender,  and  subUme  ; 

"  How  will  thy  poor  cheek  turn  pale, 
And,  before  thy  banish'd  eyes, 
Underwalden's  charming  vale 
And  thine  own  sweet  cottage  rise ! " 

WANDERER. 

"  By  the  glorious  ghost  of  Tell  ; 
By  Morgarthen's  awful  fray  ; 
By  the  field  where  Albert  fell 
In  thy  last  and  bitter  day  ; 

"  Soul  of  Switzerland,  arise  I 

Ha !  the  spell  has  waked  the  dead  : 

From  her  ashes  to  the  skies 
Switzerland  exalts  her  head. 

"  See  the  Queen  of  Mountains  stand 
In  immortal  mail  complete. 
With  the  lightning  in  her  hand. 
And  the  Alps  beneath  her  feet 


"  Hark  !  her  voice  : — '  My  sons,  awake ; 
Freedom  dawns,  behold  the  day  : 
From  the  bed  of  bondage  break, 
'T  is  your  mother  calls, — obey.' 

"  At  the  sound,  our  fathers'  graves, 
On  each  ancient  battle-plain. 
Utter  groans,  and  toss  like  waves 
^Vhen  the  wild  blast  sweeps  the  main 

"  Rise,  my  Brethren  !  cast  away 
All  the  chains  that  bind  you  slav  s : 
Rise, — your  mother's  voice  obev. 
And  appease  your  fathers'  graves 

'•  Strike  I — the  conflict  is  begun  ; 
Freemen,  Soldiers,  follow  me. 
Shout !  the  victory  is  won, — 
Switzerland  and  LiBEKTyl" 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Warrior,  Warrior,  stay  thine  arm . 
Sheathe,  0  sheathe  thv  frantic  swon    ' 


WANDERER. 

"  Ah  !  I  rave — I  faint : — the  charm 
Flies, and  memory  is  restored. 

"  Yes,  to  agony  restored 

From  the  too  transporting  charm : — 

Sleep  for  ever,  O  my  sword ! 

Be  thou  wither'd,  O  mine  arm ! 

"  Switzerland  is  but  a  name  : 

Yet  I  feel,  where'er  I  roam, 

That  my  heart  is  still  the  same, 
Switzerland  is  still  my  home.'' 


1 


IN  FOUR  PARTS. 

WRITTEX  IX  IIOXOR  OF  THE  ABOLITIOX  OF  THE  AFRICAN  SLAVE  TRADE  BY  THE 
BRITISH  LEGISLATURE,  IX  1807. 


lleceive  him  for  ever  ;  not  now  as  a  servant,  but  above  a 
servant, — a  brodier  beloved. 

St.  Paul's  Epist.  to  Philemon,  v.  15. 16. 


TO  THE  PUBLIC. 


j  which  had  become  antiquated,  by  frequent,  minute, 

(and  disgusting  exposure;  which  afforded  no  oppor- 

Itunity  to  awaken,  suspend,  and  delight  curiosity,  by  i 

There  are  objections  against  the  title  and  plan  of  a  subtle  and  surprising  developement  of  plot ;  and 

this  poem,  which  will  occur  to  almost  every  reader,  concerning  which  public  feehng  had  been  wearied 


The  Author  will  not  anticipate  them  :  he  will  only 
observe,  that  the  title  seemed  the  best,  and  the  plan 
t^'e  most  eligible,  which  Jie  could  adapt  to  a  subject 
so  various  and  excursive,  yet  so  familiar,  and  ex- 
hau.sted,  as   the  African  Slave  Trade, — a  subject 


into  insensibility,  by  the  agony  of  interest  which  the 
question  excited,  during  three-and-twent\'  years  of 
almost  incessant  discussion.  That  trade  is  at  length 
alxjlished.  May  its  memory  be  immortal,  that  hence- 
forth it  may  be  known  only  by  its  meraorv  I 

i94 


■ 


THE  WEST  INDIES. 


n 


THE  WEST  INDIES. 


PART  I. 

ARGUMENT. 

Introduction  ;  on  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave  Trade. — 
The  Mariner's  Compass. — Columbus. — The  Dis- 
covery of  America. — The  West  Indian  Islands. — 
The  Caribs. — Their  Extermination. 


"  Thy  chains  are  broken,  Africa  :  be  free  ! " 
Thus  saith  the  island-empress  of  the  sea ; 
Thus  saith  Britannia. — Oh,  ye  winds  and  waves ! 
Waft  the  glad  tidings  to  the  land  of  slaves  ; 
Proclaim  on  Guinea's  coast,  liy  Gambia's  side. 
And  far  as  Niger  rolls  his  eastern  tide,' 
Tlirough  radiant  realms,  beneath  the  burning  zone, 
Where  Europe's  curse  is  felt,  her  name  unknown. 
Thus  saith  Britannia,  empress  of  the  sea, 
"  Thy  chains  are  broken,  Africa :  be  free ! " 

Long  lay  the  ocean-paths  from  man  conceal'd : 
Light  came  from  heaven, — the  magnet  was  reveal'd, 
A  surer  star  to  guide  the  seaman's  eye 
Than  the  pale  glory  of  the  northern  sky  ; 
Alike  ordain'd  to  shine  by  night  and  day. 
Through  calm  and  tempest,  with  unsetting  ray  ; 
Where'er  the  mountains  rise,  the  billows  roll, 
Still  with  strong  impulse  turning  to  the  pole. 
True  as  the  sun  is  to  the  morning  true. 
Though  light  as  fdm,  and  trembling  as  the  dew. 

Then  man  no  longer  plied  with  timid  oar. 
And  failing  heart,  along  the  windward  shore ; 
Broad  to  the  sky  he  turn'd  his  fearless  sail. 
Defied  the  adverse,  woo'd  the  favoring  gale. 
Bared  to  the  storm  his  adamantine  breast, 
Or  soft  on  Ocean's  lap  lay  down  to  rest  ; 
Wliile  free,  as  clouds  the  liquid  ether  sweep, 
His  white-wing'd  vessels  coursed  the  unbounded  deep ; 
From  clime  to  clime  the  wanderer  loved  to  roam. 
The  waves  his  heritage,  the  world  his  home. 

Then  first  Columbus,  with  the  mighty  hand 
Of  grasping  genius,  weigh 'd  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  floods  o'erbalanced : — where  the  tide  of  light. 
Day  after  day,  roU'd  down  the  gulf  of  night. 
There  seem'd  one  waste  of  waters : — long  in  vam 
His  spirit  brooded  o'er  the  Atlantic  main ; 
When  sudden,  as  creation  burst  from  nought, 
Sprang  a  new  world,  through  his  stupendous  thought. 
Light,  order,  beauty ! — While  his  mind  explored 
The  unveiling  raj'stery,  his  heart  adored  ; 
Where'er  sublime  imagination  trod. 
He  heard  the  voice,  he  saw  the  face  of  God.  ( 

Far  from  the  western  cliffs  he  cast  his  eye 
O'er  the  wide  ocean  stretching  to  the  sky : 


1  Mungo  Park,  in  his  travels,  ascertained  that  "the  great 
river  of  the  Negroes  "  flows  eoMioard.  It  is  probaWe.  therefore, 
that  this  river  is  either  lost  among  the  sands,  or  empties  itself  I 
into  some  inland  sea,  in  the  undiscovered  regions  of  Africa.— 
See  also  Part  II,  line  64. 


In  calm  magnificence  the  sun  declined, 
And  left  a  paradise  of  clouds  behind : 
Proud  at  his  feet,  with  pomp  of  pearl  and  gold, 
The  billows  in  a  sea  of  glory  roU'd. 

"  — Ah  1  on  this  sea  of  glory  might  I  sail. 
Track  the  bright  sun,  and  pierce  the  eternal  veil 
That  hides  those  lands,  beneath  Hesperian  skies, 
Where  day-light  sojourns  till  our  morrow  rise !  '*' 

Thoughtful  he  wander'd  on  the  beach  alone  ; 
Mild  o'er  the  deep  the  vesper  planet  shone. 
The  eye  of  evening,  brightening  through  the  west 
Till  the  sweet  moment  when  it  shut  to" rest : 
"  Whither,  O  golden  Venus  !  art  thou  fled  ? 
Not  in  the  ocean-chambers  lies  thy  bed  ; 
Round  the  dim  world  thy  glittering  chariot  drawn 
Pursues  the  twilight,  or  precedes  the  dawn ; 
Thy  beauty  noon  and  midnight  never  see. 
The  morn  and  eve  divide  the  year  with  thee." 

Soft  fell  the  shades,  till  Cynthia's  slender  bow 
Crested  the  farthest  wave,  then  sunk  below : 
"  Tell  me,  resplendent  guardian  of  the  night. 
Circling  the  sphere  in  thy  perennial  flight^ 
What  secret  path  of  heaven  thy  smiles  adom. 
What  nameless  sea  reflects  thy  gleaming  horn  ? " 

Now  earth  and  ocean  vanish'd,  all  serene 
The  starry  firmament  alone  was  seen  ; 
Through  the  slow,  silent  hours,  he  watch'd  the  host 
Of  midnight  suns  in  western  darkness  lost, 
Till  Night  himself,  on  shadowy  pinions  borne, 
Fled  o'er  the  mighty  waters,  and  the  morn 
Danced  on  the  mountains  : — "  Lights  of  heaven  I"  ho 

cried, 
"  Lead  on  ; — I  go  to  win  a  glorious  bride  ; 
Fearless  o'er  gulfs  unknown  I  urgf>  my  way. 
Where  peril  prowls,  and  shipwreck  lurks  for  prey: 
Hope  swells  my  sail  ;-^in  spirit  I  behold 
That  maiden  worla,  twin-sister  of  the  old, 
By  nature  nursed  beyond  the  jealous  sea. 
Denied  to  ages,  but  betrolh'd  to  me."' 


1  When  the  Author  of  The  Weft  Indies  conceived  the  plan 
of  this  introduction  of  Columbus,  he  was  not  aware  that  he  was 
indebted  to  any  precpdins;  poet  for  a  hmt  on  the  subject;  but, 
some  time  afterwards,  on  a  second  perusal  of  Southey's  Madoc, 
it  struck  him  that  the  idea  of  Columbus  walking  or  the  shore 
at  sunset,  which  he  had  hitherto  imagined  his  own,  might  be 
only  a  reflection  of  the  impression  made  upon  his  mind  long  be- 
fore, by  the  first  reading  of  the  following  splendid  passage.  Ho 
therefore  gladly  makes  this  acknowledgment,  though  at  his  ow)i 
expense,  in  justice  to  the  Author  of  the  noblest  narrative  poem 
in  the  English  language,  after  the  Faerie  Q.ueen  and  Peradise 
Lost. 

When  evening  came,  toward  the  echoing  shore. 

I  and  Cadwallon  walk'd  togeiher  forth  ; 

Bright  with  dilated  glory  shone  the  west ; 

But  brighter  lay  the  ocean  flood  below. 

The  burnish'd  silver  sea,  that  heaved  and  flash'd 

Its  restless  rays  intolerably  bright. 

"  Prince  !"  quoth  Cadwallon,  "  thou  hast  rode  the  waves 

In  triumph  when  the  Invader  felt  thine  arm. 

Oh  what  a  nobler  conquest  miifht  be  won 

There, — upon  that  wide  field  !"  "  What  meanest  thou  ?" 

I  cried  :  "  That  yonder  waters  are  not  spread 

A  boundless  waste,  a  bourne  impassable; 

Tliat  thou  shouldst  rule  the  elements, — that  there 

Might  manly  courage,  manly  wisdom,  find 

Sonje  happy  isle,  some  undiscover'd  shore, 

195 


12 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  winds  were  prosperous,  and  the  billows  bore 
The  brave  adventurer  to  the  promised  shore; 
Far  in  the  west,  array'd  in  purple  light, 
Davvn'd  the  new  world  on  his  enraptured  sight : 
Not  Adam,  loosen'd  from  the  encumbering  earth, 
Waived  by  the  breath  of  God  to  instant  birth, 
With  sweeter,  wilder  wonder  gazed  around, 
When  life  v^ithin,  and  light  without  he  found ; 
When,  all  creation  rushing  o'er  his  soul, 
He  seem'd  to  live  and  breathe  throughout  the  whole. 
So  felt  Columbus,  when,  divinely  fair, 
At  the  last  look  of  resolute  despair, 
The  Hesperian  isles,  from  distance  dimly  blue. 
With  gradual  beauty  open'd  on  his  view. 
In  that  proud  moment,  his  transported  mind 
The  morning  and  the  evening  worlds  combined. 
And  made  the  sea,  that  sunder'd  them  before 
A  bond  of  peace,  uniting  shore  to  shore. 

Vain,  visionary  hope  I  rapacious  Spain 
FoUow'd  her  hero's  triumph  o'er  the  main. 
Her  hardy  sons  in  fields  of  battle  tried, 
Where  Moor  and  Christian  desperately  died. 
A  rabid  race,  fanatically  bold. 
And  steel'd  to  cruelty  by  lust  of  gold. 
Traversed  the  waves,  the  unknown  world  explored. 
The  cross  their  standard,  but  their  faith  the  sword  ; 
Their  steps  were  graves;  o'er  prostrate  realms  they 

trod  ; 
They  worshipp'd  Mammon  while  they  vow'd  to  God. 

Let  nobler  bards  in  loftier  numbers  tell 
How  Cortez  conquer'd,  Montezuma  fell ; 
How  fierce  Pizarro's  ruffian  arm  o'erthrevv 
The  Sun's  resplendent  empire  in  Peru ; 
How,  like  a  prophet,  old  Las  Casas  stood, 
And  raised  his  voice  against  a  sea  of  blood. 
Whose  chilling  waves  recoil'd  while  he  foretold 
His  country's  ruin  by  avenging  gold. 
— That  gold,  for  which  unpitied  Indians  fell. 
That  gold,  at  once  the  snare  and  scourge  of  hell, 
Thenceforth  by  righteous  Heaven  was  doom'd  to  shed 
Unmingled  curses  on  the  spoiler's  head  ; 
For  gold  the  Spaniard  cast  his  soul  away, — 
His  gold  and  he  were  every  nation's  prey. 

But  themes  like  these  would  ask  an  angel-lyre. 
Language  of  light  and  sentiment  of  fire ; 
Give  me  to  sing,  in  melancholy  strains. 
Of  Carib  martyrdoms  and  Negro  chains ; 
One  race  by  tyrants  rooted  from  the  earth. 
One  doom'd  to  slavery  by  the  taint  of  birth ! 

Where  first  his  drooping  sails  Columbus  furl'd, 
And  sweetly  rested  in  another  world. 
Amidst  the  heaven-redecting  ocean,  smiles 
A  constellation  of  elysian  isles ; 
Fair  as  Orion,  when  he  moimts  on  high. 
Sparkling  with  midnight  splendor  from  the  sky : 
They  bask  beneath  the  sun's  meridian  rays, 
\Vhen  not  a  shadow  breaks  the  boundless  blaze ; 
The  breath  of  ocean  wanders  through  their  vales 
In  morning  breezes  and  in  evening  gales : 


Some  resling-place  for  peace.    Oh  !  that  my  soul 
Could  seize  the  winss  of  morning  !  soon  would  I 
Behold  that  other  world,  'vhere  yonder  sun 
Kow  speeds  to  dawn  in  glory." 


Earth  from  her  lap  perennial  verdure  pours, 
'  Ambrosial  fruits,  and  amaranthine  flowers  ; 
O'er  the  wild  mountains  and  luxuriant  plains. 
Nature  in  all  the  pomp  of  beauty  reigns, 
In  all  the  pride  of  freedom. — Natui^e  frek 
'Proclaims  that  Man  was  born  for  liberty. 
j  She  flourishes  where'er  the  sun-beams  play 
|Oer  living  fountains,  sallying  into  day; 
She  withers  where  the  waters  cea.'se  to  roll, 
And  night  and  winter  stagnate  round  the  jtole : 
Man  too,  where  freedom's  beams  and  iountanis  rise, 
Springs  from  the  dust,  and  blossoms  to  the  skies; 
Dead  to  the  joys  of  light  and  life,  the  slave 
Clings  to  the  clod ;  his  root  is  in  the  grave : 
Bondage  is  winter,  darkness,  death,  despair ; 
Freedom  the  sun,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  and  the  air 


In  placid  indolence  supinely  blest, 
A  feeble  race  these  beauteous  isles  possess'd ; 
Untamed,  untaught,  in  arts  and  arms  unskill'd. 
Their  patrimonial  soil  they  rudely  till'd, 
Chased  the  free  rovers  of  the  savage  wood. 
Ensnared  the  wild-bird,  swept  the  scaly  flood , 
Shelter'd  in  lowly  huts  their  fragile  forms 
From  burning  suns  and  desolating  storms ; 
Or  when  the  halcyon  sported  on  the  breeze, 
In  light  canoes  they  tkimm'd  the  rippling  seas : 
Their  lives  in  dreams  of  soothing  languor  flew. 
No  parted  joys,  no  future  pains,  they  knew. 
The  passing  moment  all  their  bliss  or  care ; 
Such  as  their  sires  had  been  the  children  were. 
From  age  to  age ;  ag  v.  aves  upon  the  tide 
Of  stormless  time,  they  calmly  lived  and  died. 


Dreadful  as  hurricanes,  athwart  the  main 
Rush'd  the  fell  legions  of  invading  Spain ; 
With  fraud  and  force,  with  false  and  fatal  breatK 
(Submission  bondage,  and  resistance  death). 
They  swept  the  isles.     In  vain  the  simple  race 
!  Kneel'd  to  the  iron  sceptre  of  their  grace. 
Or  with  weak  arms  their  fiery  vengeance  braved, 
They  came,  they  saw,  they  conquer'd,  they  enslav« 
And  they  destroy'd ; — the  generous  heart  they  brofei 
They  crush'd  the  timid  neck  beneath  the  yoke ; 
Where'er  to  battle  march'd  their  fell  array, 
The  sword  of  conquest  plow'd  resistless  way ; 
Where'er  from  cruel  toil  they  sought  repose. 
Around  the  fires  of  devastation  rose. 
The  Indian,  as  he  turn'd  his  head  in  flight, 
Beheld  his  cottage  flaming  through  the  night, 
And,  'midst  the  shrieks  of  murder  on  the  wind, 
Heard  the  mute  blood-hoimd's  death-step  close  behin 


The  conflict  o'er,  the  valiant  in  their  graves. 
The  wretched  remnant  dwindled  into  slaves ; 
Condemn'd  in  pestilential  cells  to  pine, 
Delving  for  gold  amidst  the  gloomy  mine. 
The  sufferer,  sick  of  life-protracting  breath. 
Inhaled  with  joy  the  fire-damp  blast  of  death  . 
— Condemn'd  to  fell  the  mountain  palm  on  high, 
That  cast  its  shadow  from  the  evening  sky. 
Ere  the  tree  trembled  to  his  feeble  stroke. 
The  woodman  languish'd,  and  his  heart-strings  brol 
— Condemn'd,  in  torrid  noon,  with  palsied  hand, 
To  urge  the  slow  plow  o'er  the  obdurate  land, 

196 


THE  WEST  INDIES. 


13 


The  laborer,  smitten  by  the  sun's  quick  ray, 
A  corpse  along  the  untinish'd  furrow  lay. 
O'erwhelm'd  at  length  with  ignominious  toil, 
Mingling  their  barren  ashes  with  the  soil, 
DowTi  to  the  dust  the  Carib  people  pass'd, 
Like  autumn  foliage  w  ithehng  in  the  blast : 
The  whole  race  sunk  beneath  the  oppressor's  rod, 
And  left  a  blank  among  the  works  of  God. 


PART  11. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  Cane. — Africa. — The  Negro. — The  Slave-Carry- 
ing Trade. — The  Means  and  Resources  of  the  Slave 

Trade. The    Portuguese,  —  Dutch,  —  Danes, — 

French, — and  English  in  America. 


Ajioxg  the  bowers  of  paradise,  that  graced 
Those  islands  of  the  world-dividing  waste, 
Where  towering  cocoas  waved  their  graceful  locks. 
And  vines  luxuriant  cluster'd  round  the  rocks  ; 
Where  orange-groves  perfumed  the  circling  air, 
With  verdure,  flowers,  and  fruit  for  ever  fair; 
Gay  mvrtle  foliage  track'd  the  winding  rills. 
And  cedar  forests  slumber'd  on  the  hills ; 
— An  eastern  plant,  ingrafted  on  the  soil,' 
Was  till'd  for  ages  with  consuming  toil  ; 
No  tree  of  knowledge  with  forbidden  fruit. 
Death  in  the  taste,  and  ruin  at  the  root ; 
Yet  in  its  gi-owth  were  good  and  evil  found, 
It  bless"d  the  planter,  but  it  cursed  the  ground ; 
While  \\-ith  vain  wealth  it  gorged  the  master's  hoard 
And  spread  with  manna  his  luxurious  board, 
Its  culture  was  perdition  to  the  slave, — 
i  It  sapp'd  his  life,  and  flourish'd  on  his  grave. 

1       When  the  fierce  spoiler  from  remorseless  Spain 

1  Tasted  the  balmy  spirit  of  the  cane, 

I   (Already  had  his  rival  in  the  west 

I   From  the  rich  reed  ambrosia!  sweetness  press'd). 
Dark  through  his  thoughts  the  miser  purpose  roll'd 
To  turn  its  hidden  treasures  into  gold. 
But  at  his  breath,  by  pestilent  decay, 
The  Indian  tribes  were  swiftly  swept  away ; 
Silence  and  horror  o'er  the  isles  were  spread. 
The  living  seem'd  the  spectres  of  the  dead. 
The  Spaniard  saw ;  no  sigh  of  pity  stole. 
No  pang  of  conscience  touch'd  his  sullen  soul: 
The  tiger  weeps  not  o'er  the  kid  : — he  turns 
His  fla.-ihing  eyes  abroad,  and  madly  bums 
For  nobler  victims,  and  for  warmer  blood  : 
Thus  on  the  Carib  shore  the  tyrant  stood. 
Thus  cast  his  eyes  with  fury  o'er  the  tide. 
And  far  bevond  the  gloomy  gulf  descried 
Devoted  Africa  :  he  burst  away. 
And  with  a  yell  of  transport  grasp'd  his  prey. 

Where  the  stupendous  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
Cast  their  broad  shadows  o'er  the  realms  of  noon ; 


1  The  Cane  is  said  to  have  heen  first  transplanted  from  Ma- 
deira to  the  Brnzils,  by  the  Portuguese,  and  afterwards  intro- 
duced by  the  Spaniards  into  the  Caribbee  Islands. — See  also 
me 21,  below. 

R2 


From  rude  Caffraria,  where  the  giraffes  browse, 

With  stalely  heads,  among  the  forest  boughs, 

To  Atlas,  where  Numidian  lions  glow 

With  torrid  fire  beneath  eternal  snow : 

From  Nubian  hills,  that  hail  the  dav^ning  day, 

To  Guinea's  coast,  where  evening  fades  away, 

Regions  immense,  unsearchable,  unknown. 

Bask  in  the  splendor  of  the  solar  zone  ; 

A  world  of  wonders, — where  creation  seems 

No  more  the  works  of  Nature,  but  her  dreams; 

Great,  wild,  and  beautiful,  beyond  control. 

She  reigns  in  all  the  freedom  of  her  soul ; 

Where  none  can  check  her  bounty  when  she  showers 

O'er  the  gay  wilderness  her  fruits  and  flowers ; 

None  brave  her  fury,  when,  with  whirlwind  breath. 

And  earthquake  step,  she  w  alks  abroad  w  ith  death : 

O'er  boimdless  plains  she  holds  her  fiery  flight. 

In  terrible  magnificence  of  light ; 

At  blazing  noon  pursues  the  evening  breeze, 

Through  the  dun  gloom  of  realm-o'ershadowing  trees. 

Her  thirst  at  Nile's  mysterious  fountain  quells, 

Or  bathes  in  secrecy  where  Niger  swells 

An  inland  ocean,  on  whose  jasper  rocks 

With  shells  and  sea-flower-wreaths  she  binds  her 

locks  : 
She  slept  on  isles  of  velvet  verdure,  placed 
'Midst  sandy  gults  and  shoals  for  ever  waste  : 
She  guides  her  countless  flocks  to  cherish'd  rills. 
And  feeds  her  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills ; 
Her  steps  the  wild  bees  welcome  through  the  vale. 
From  ever}'  blossom  that  embalms  the  gale ; 
The  slow  unwieldy  river-horse  she  leads 
Through  the  deep  waters,  o'er  the  pasturing  meads ; 
And  climbs  the  mountains  that  invade  the  sky. 
To  soothe  the  eagle's  nestlings  when  they  ciy. 
At  sun-set,  when  voracious  monsters  burst 
From  dreams  of  blood,  awaked  by  maddening  thirst ; 
When  the  lorn  caves,  in  which  they  shrunk  from  light. 
Ring  with  wild  echoes  through  the  hideous  night ; 
V/hen  darkness  seems  alive,  and  all  the  air 
Is  one  tremendous  uproar  of  despair. 
Horror,  and  agony  ; — on  her  they  call ; 
She  hears  their  clamor,  she  provides  for  all, 
Leads  the  light  leopard  on  his  eager  way, 
And  goads  the  gaunt  hyena  to  his  prey. 

In  these  romantic  regions,  man  grows  wild  ; 
Here  dwells  the  Negro,  Nature's  outcast  child, 
Scorn'd  by  his  brethren  ;  but  his  mother's  eye. 
That  gazes  on  him  from  her  warmest  sky. 
Sees  in  his  flexile  limbs  untutor'd  grace, 
Power  on  his  forehead,  beauty  in  his  face  ; 
Sees  in  his  breast,  where  lawless  passions  rove. 
The  heart  of  friendship  and  the  home  of  love ; 
Sees  in  his  mind,  where  desolation  reigns 
Fierce  as  his  clime,  uncultured  as  his  plains. 
A  soil  where  virtue's  fairest  flowers  might  shooU 
And  trees  of  science  bend  with  glorious  fruit ; 
Sees  in  his  soul,  involved  with  thickest  night, 
An  emanation  of  eternal  light, 
Ordain'd,  'midst  sinking  worlds,  his  dust  to  fire 
And  shine  for  ever  when  the  stars  expire. 
Is  he  not  man,  though  knowledge  never  shed 
Her  quickening  beams  on  his  neglected  head  ? 
I  Is  he  not  7nan,  though  sweet  religion's  voice 
Ne'er  bade  the  mourner  in  his  God  reioice  ? 

.97 


14 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Is  he  not  man,  by  sin  and  suffering  tried  ? 
Is  he  not  man,  for  whom  the  Savior  died  ? 
Belie  the  Negro's  powers ; — in  headlong  will, 
Christian,  thy  brother  thou  shalt  prove  him  still : 
Behe  his  virtues ;  since  his  wrongs  began, 
His  follies  and  his  crimes  have  stampt  him  Man. 

The  Spaniard  found  him  such : — the  island-race 
His  foot  had  spurn'd  from  earth's  insulted  face ; 
Among  the  waifs  and  foundlings  of  mankind, 
Abroad  he  look'd,  a  sturdier  stock  to  find  ; 
A  spring  of  life,  whose  fountains  should  supply 
His  channels,  as  he  drank  the  rivers  dry : 
That  stock  he  found  on  Afric's  swarming  plams, 
That  spring  he  open'd  in  the  Negro's  veins ; 
A  spring,  exhaustless  as  his  avarice  drew, 
A  stock  that  hke  Prometheus'  vitals  grew 
Beneath  the  eternal  beak  his  heart  had  tore, 
Beneath  the  insatiate  thirst  that  drain'd  his  gore. 
Thus,  childless  as  the  Caribbeans  died, 
Afric's  strong  sons  the  ravening  waste  supplied  ; 
Of  hardier  fibre  to  endure  the  yoke. 
And  self  renew'd  beneath  the  severing  stroke ; 
As  grim  Oppression  crush'd  them  to  the  tomb, 
Their  fruitful  parents'  miserable  womb 
Teem'd  with  fresh  myriads,  crowded  o'er  the  waves, 
Heirs  to  their  toil,  their  sufferings,  and  their  graves. 

Freighted  wdth  curses  was  the  bark  that  bore 
The  spoilers  of  the  west  to  Guinea's  shore ; 
Heavy  with  groans  of  anguish  blew  the  gales 
That  swell'd  that  fatal  bark's  returning  sails  ; 
Old  Ocean  shrunk,  as  o'er  his  surface  flew 
The  human  cargo  and  the  demon  crew. 
— Thenceforth,  unnumber'd  as  the  waves  that  roll 
From  sun  to  sun,  or  pass  from  pole  to  i)oIe, 
Outcasts  and  exiles,  from  their  coinitry  torn, 
In  floating  dungeons  o'er  the  gulf  w^ere  borne : 
— The  vahant,  seized  in  peril-daring  fight  ,• 
The  weak,  surprised  in  nakedness  and  night ; 
Subjects  by  mercenary  despots  sold ; 
Victims  of  justice  prostitute  for  gold  ; 
Brothers  by  brothers,  friends  by  friends  betray'd  ; 
Snared  in  her  lover's  arms  the  trusting  maid ; 
The  faithful  wife  by  her  false  lord  estranged. 
For  one  wild  cup  of  drunken  bliss  exchanged ; 
From  the  brute-mother's  knee,  the  infant-boy, 
Kidnapp'd  in  slumber,  barter'd  for  a  toy  ; 
The  father,  resting  at  Ms  father's  tree, 
Doom'd  by  the  son  to  die  beyond  the  sea : 
— All  bonds  of  kindred,  law,  alliance  broke. 
All  ranks,  all  nations  crouching  to  the  yoke  ; 
From  fields  of  light,  unshadow'd  climes,  that  lie 
Panting  beneath  the  sun's  meridian  eye  ; 
From  hidden  Ethiopia's  utmost  land  ; 
From  Zaara's  fickle  wilderness  of  sand ; 
From  Congo's  blazing  plains  and  blooming  woods ; 
From  VVhidah's  hills,  that  gush  with  golden  floods  ; 
Captives  of  tyrant  power  and  dastard  wiles, 
Dispeopled  Africa,  and  gorged  the  isles. 
Loud  and  perpetual  o'er  the  Atlantic  waves, 
For  guilty  ages  roll'd  the  tide  of  slaves ; 
A  tide  that  knew  no  fall,  no  turn,  no  rest. 
Constant  as  day  and  night  from  east  to  west ; 
Still  widening,  deepening,  swelling  in  its  course, 
With  boundless  ruin  and  resistless  force. 


Quickly,  by  Spain's  alluring  fortune  fired, 
With  hopes  of  fame,  and  dreams  of  wealth  inspired 
Europe's  dread  powers  from  ignominious  ease 
Started ;  their  pennons  stream'd  on  every  breeze : 
And  still,  where'er  the  wide  discoveries  spread. 
The  cane  was  planted,  and  the  native  bled  ; 
While,  nursed  by  fiercer  suns,  of  nobler  race. 
The  Negro  toil'd  and  perish'd  in  his  place. 

First,  Lusilania, — she  whose  prows  had  borne 
Her  arms  triumphant  round  the  car  of  morn, 
— Turn'd  to  the  setting  sun  her  bright  array. 
And  hung  her  trophies  o'er  the  couch  of  day. 

Holland, — whose  hardy  sons  roll'd  back  the  sea 
To  build  the  halcyon-nest  of  liberty. 
Shameless  abroad  the  enslaving  flag  unfurl'd. 
And  reign'd  a  despot  in  the  younger  world. 

Denmark, — whose   roving  hordes,   in   barbarous 
times, 
Fill'd  the  wide  North  with  piracy  and  crimes. 
Awed  every  shore,  and  taught  their  keels  to  sweep 
O'er  every  sea,  the  Arabs  of  the  deep, 
— Erabark'd,  once  more  to  western  conquest  led 
By  Rollo's  spirit,  risen  from  the  dead. 

Gallia, — who  vainly  aim'd,  in  depth  of  night. 
To  hurl  old  Rome  from  her  Tarpeian  height, 
(But  lately  laid,  with  unprevented  blow. 
The  thrones  of  kings,  the  hopes  of  freedom  low), 
— Rush'd  o'er  the  theatre  of  splendid  toils, 
To  brave  the  dangers  and  divide  the  spoils. 

Britannia, — she  who  scathed  the  crest  of  Spain. 
And  won  the  trident  sceptre  of  the  main. 
When  to  the  raging  wind  and  ravening  tide 
She  gave  the  huge  Armada's  scatter'd  pride, 
Smit  by  the  thunder-wielding  hand  that  hurl'd 
Her  vengeance  round*  the  w  ave-encircled  world  ; 
— Britannia  shared  the  glory  and  the  guilt, — 
By  her  were  Slavery's  island-altars  built. 
And  fed  with  human  victims ; — while  the  cries 
Of  blood  demanding  vengeance  from  the  skies, 
Assail'd  her  traders'  grovelling  hearts  in  vain 
— Hearts  dead  to  sympathj',  alive  to  gain, 
Hard  from  impunity,  with  avarice  cold, 
Sordid  as  earth,  insensible  as  gold. 

Thus  through  a  night  of  ages,  in  whose  shade 
The  sons  of  darkness  plied  the  infernal  trade, 
Wild  Africa  beheld  her  tribes,  at  home. 
In  battle  slain  ;  abroad,  condemn'd  to  roam 
O'er  the  salt  waves,  in  stranger  isles  to  bear 
(Forlorn  of  hope,  and  sold  into  despair). 
Through  life's  slow  journey,  to  its  dolorous  close. 
Unseen,  unwept,  unutterable  woes. 


PART  IIL 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Love  of  Country,  and  of  Home,  the  same  in  all 

Ages  and  among  all  Nations. — The  Negro's  Home 

and  Country. — Mungo  Park. — Progress  of  the  Slave 

Trade. — The  Middle  Passage. — The  Negro  in  the 

398 


THE  ^YEST  INDIES. 


15 


West  Indies. — The  Guinea  Captain. — The  Creole 
Planter. — The  Moors  of  Barbary. — Buccaneers. — 
Maroons. — St.  Domingo. — Hurricanes. — The  Yel- 
low Fever. 


There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  viorld  beside ; 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  emparadise  the  night ; 

;  A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
Time-tutor'd  age,  and  love-exalted  youth  ; 
The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 

:  Views  not  a  realm  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air  ; 
In  every  clime  the  magnet  of  his  soul, 
Touch'd  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole  ; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  grace, 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  race, 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 

i  A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest, 

I  Where  man,  creation's  t}Tant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantn,-  and  pride, 
While  in  his  soften'd  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend  : 
Here  woman  reigns ;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life  ; 
In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 
An  angel-guard  of  loves  and  graces  lie ; 
Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 
And  fire-side  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feel. 
"  Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ?" 
Art  thou  a  man  ? — a  patriot  ? — look  around  ; 
0.  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
That  land  tht/  country-,  and  that  spot  thy  home ! 

On   Greenland's   rocks,  o'er  rude  Kamschatka's 
plains. 
In  pale  Siberia's  desolate  domains  ; 
When  the  wild  hunter  takes  his  lonely  way. 
Tracks  through  tempestuous  snows  his  savage  prey. 
The  reindeer's  spoil,  the  ermine's  treasure  shares, 
And  feasts  his  famine  on  the  fat  of  bears  ; 
Or,  wrestling  with  the  might  of  raging  seas. 
Where  round  the  pole  the  eternal  billows  freeze. 
Plucks  from  their  jaws  the  stricken  whale,  in  vain 
Plunging  down  headlong  through  the  whirling  main; 
■^-His  wastes  of  ice  are  lovelier  in  his  eye 
Than  all  the  flowerj^  vales  beneath  the  sky. 
And  dearer  far  than  Caesar's  palace-dome," 
His  cavern-shelter,  and  his  cottage-home. 

O'er  China's  garden-fields  and  peopled  floods  ; 
In  Cahfoniia's  pathless  world  of  woods  ; 
Round  Andes'  heights,  where  Winter  from  his  throne. 
Looks  down  in  scorn  upon  the  summer  zone ; 
By  the  gay  borders  of  Bermuda's  isles. 
Where  Spring  with  everlasting  verdure  smiles. 
On  pure  Madeira's  vine-robed  hills  of  health ; 
In  Java's  swamps  of  pestilence  and  wealth  ; 
Where  Babel  stood,  Avhere  Avolves  and  jackals  drink, 
'Midst  weeping  willows,  on  Euphrates'  brink  ; 
On  Carmel's  crest  ,•  by  Jordan's  reverend  stream, 
Where  Canaan's  glories  vanish'd  like  a  dream  ; 
VlTiere  Greece,  a  spectre,  haunts  her  heroes'  sraves.  i 
And  Rome's  vast  ruins  darken  Tiber's  waves^j 


WTiere  broken-hearted  Switzerland  bewails 
Her  subject  mountains  and  dishonor'd  vales; 
Where  Albion's  rocks  exult  amidst  the  sea. 
Around  the  beauteous  isle  of  Liberty ; 
— Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time, 
Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime. 
Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride. 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside; 
His  home  the  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 

And  is  the  Negro  outlaw'd  from  his  birth  ? 
Is  he  alone  a  stranger  on  the  earth  ? 
Is  there  no  shed,  whose  peeping  roof  appears 
So  lovely  that  it  fills  his  eyes  with  tears  ? 
No  land,  whose  name,  in  exile  heard,  will  dart 
Ice  through  his  veins  and  lightning  through  his  heart? 
Ah  !  yes  ;  beneath  the  beams  of  brighter  skies, 
His  home  amidst  his  father's  country  lies ; 
There  with  the  partner  of  his  soul  he  shares 
Love-mingled  pleasures,  love-divided  cares  : 
There,  as  with  nature's  warmest  filial  fire. 
He  soothes  his  blind,  and  feeds  his  helpless  sire, 
His  children  sporting  round  his  hut  behold 
How  they  shall  cherish  him  when  he  is  old, 
Train'd  by  example  from  their  tenderest  youth 
To  deeds  of  charity,  and  words  of  truth." 
— Is  he  not  blest  ?    Behold,  at  closing  da)-. 
The  negro-village  swarms  abroad  to  play ; 
He  treads  the  dance  through  all  its  rapttirous  rounds. 
To  the  wild  music  of  barbarian  sounds ; 
Or,  stretch'd  at  ease,  where  broad  palmettoes  shower 
Delicious  coolness  in  his  shadowy  bower. 
He  feasts  on  tales  of  witchcraft,  that  give  birth 
To  breathless  wonder,  or  ecstatic  mirth  : 
Yet  most  delighted,  when,  in  rudest  rhymes, 
The  minstrel  wakes  the  song  of  elder  times, 
When  men  were  heroes,  slaves  to  Beauty's  charms, 
And  all  the  joys  of  life  were  love  and  arms. 
— Is  not  the  Negro  blest  ?   His  generous  soil 
With  harvest-plenty  crowns  his  simple  toil ; 
More  than  his  wants  his  flocks  and  fields  afibrd: 
He  loves  to  greet  the  stranger  at  his  board  : 

The  winds  were  roaring,  and  the  White  Man  fled ; 
The  rains  of  night  descended  on  his  head  ; 
The  poor  White  Man  sat  down  beneath  our  tree. 
Weary  and  faint,  and  far  from  home,  was  he : 
For  him  no  mother  fills  with  milk  the  bowl. 
No  wife  prepares  the  bread  to  cheer  his  soul ; 
— Pity  the  poor  White  Man  who  sought  our  tree ; 
No  wife,  no  mother,  and  no  home,  has  he." 
Thus  sang  the  Negro's  daughters ; — once  again, 
O  that  the  poor  White  Man  might  hear  that  strain ! 


1  Dr.  Winterbothnm  snys,  "  The  respect  which  the  Africans 
pny  to  old  pcop'e  is  very  great. — One  of  the  severest  insults 
which  can  be  offered  to  an  African  is  to  speak  disrespectfully 
of  his  mother."  "The  Nesro  race  is,  perhaps,  the  most  pro- 
lific of  all  the  human  species.  Their  infancy  and  youth  are  sin 
guhrly  happy. — The  mothers  are  passionately  fond  of  their 
ch\\i\r>  n."—Gold.lni-nfs  Travels. — "'Strike  me,'  said  my 
attendant,  'but  do  not  curse  my  mother.' — The  same  senti 
ment  I  found  universally  to  prevail. — One  of  the  first  lesson, 
in  which  the  Mandingo  women  instruct  their  children  is  th«5 
practke  of  truth.  It  was  the  only  consolation  for  a  Xegru 
mother,  whose  son  h'ld  been  murdered  by  the  Moors,  that  tki 
pnor  hmj  ha/l  vever  told  a  lie.''' — Park  s  Travels.  The  de- 
scription of  African  life  and  manners  that  follows,  and  the  soni. 
of  the  Xegro's  daughters,  are  copied  without  exaggeration  from 
the  authentic  accouiits  of  Mungo  Park. 

199 


16 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— Whether  the  victim  of  the  treacherous  Moor, 
Or  from  the  Negro's  hospitable  door 
Spurn'd  as  a  spy  from  Europe's  hateful  clime, 
And  left  to  perish  for  thy  country's  crime ; 
Or  destined  still,  when  all  thy  wanderings  cease, 
On  Albion's  lovely  lap  to  rest  in  peace  ; 
Pilgrim!  in  heaven  or  earth,  where'er  thou  be. 
Angels  of  mercy  guide  and  comfort  thee ! 

Thus  lived  the  Negro  in  his  native  land. 
Till  Christian  cruisers  anchor'd  on  his  strand : 
Where'er  their  grasping  arms  the  spoilers  spread, 
The  Negro's  joys,  the  Negro's  virtues,  fled  ; 
Till,  far  amidst  the  wilderness  unknown. 
They  flourish'd  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  alone : 
While  from  the  coast,  with  wide  and  wider  sweep, 
The  race  of  Mammon  dragg'd  across  the  deep 
Their  sable  victims,  to  that  western  bourn, 
From  which  no  traveller  might  e'er  relurn, 
To  blazon  in  the  ears  of  future  slaves 
The  secrets  of  the  world  beyond  the  waves. 

When  the  loud  trumpet  of  eternal  doom 
Shall  break  the  mortal  bondage  of  the  tomb  ; 
When  with  a  mother's  pangs  the  expiring  earth 
Shall  bring  her  children  forth  to  second  birih ; 
Then  shall  the  sea's  mysterious  caverns,  spread 
With  human  relics,  render  up  their  dead  : 
Though  warm  with  life  the  heaving  surges  glow. 
Where'er  the  winds  of  heaven  were  wont  to  blow, 
In  sevenfold  phalanx  shall  the  rallying  hosts 
Of  ocean  slumberers  join  their  wandering  ghosts. 
Along  the  melancholy  gulf  that  roars 
From  Guinea  to  the  Caribbean  shores. 
Myriads  of  sla,ves,  that  perish'd  on  the  way, 
From  age  to  age  the  shark's  appointed  prey. 
By  livid  plagues,  by  lingering  tortures  slain. 
Or  headlong  plunged  alive  into  the  main,' 
Shall  rise  in  judgment  from  their  gloomy  beds. 
And  call  down  vengeance  on  their  murderers'  heads. 


1  On  this  subject  the  following  instance  of  almost  incredible 
cruelty  was  substantiated  in  a  court  of  justice-. — 

"  In  thi.a  year  (1783),  certain  underwriters  desired  to  be  heard 
against  Gregson  and  others  of  Liverpool,  in  the  case  of  the  ship 
Zong,  Captain  Collingwood,  alleging  that  the  captain  and 
officers  of  the  said  vessel  threw  overboard  one  hundred  and 
thirty-t%vo  slaves  alive  into  the  sea.  in  order  to  defraud  them, 
by  claiming  the  value  of  the  said  slaves,  as  if  they  had  been 
lost  in  a  natural  way.  In  the  course  of  the  trial,  whii:h  after- 
wards came  on,  it  appeared  that  the  slaves  on  board  the  Zong 
were  very  sickly ;  that  sixty  of  them  had  already  died ;  and 
several  were  ill,  and  likely  to  die,  when  the  captain  proposed 
to  James  Kelsal,  the  mate,  and  others,  to  throw  several  of  them 
overboard,  stating,  'that  if  they  died  a  natural  death,  the  loss 
would  fall  upon  the  owners  of  the  ship,  but  that,  if  they  were 
thrown  into  the  sea,  it  would  fall  upon  the  underwriters.'  He 
selected,  accordingly,  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  of  the  most 
Bickly  of  the  slaves.  Fifty-fourof  these  were  immediately  thrown 
overboard,  and  forty-two  were  made  to  be  partakers  of  their 
fate  on  the  succeeding  day.  In  the  course  of  three  days  after- 
wards the  remaining  twenty-six  were  brought  upon  deck,  to 
complete  the  number  of  victims.  The  first  sixteen  submitted  to 
be  thrown  into  the  sea,  but  the  rest,  with  a  noble  resolution, 
would  not  suffer  the  officers  to  touch  them,  but  leaped  after 
their  companions,  and  shared  their  fate. 

"The  plea  which  was  set  up  in  behalf  of  this  atrocious  and 
unparalleled  act  of  wickedness  was,  that  the  captain  discovered, 
when  he  made  the  proposal,  that  he  had  only  two  hundred  gal- 
lons of  water  on  board,  and  that  he  had  missed  his  port.  It  was; 
proved,  however,  in  answer  to  this,  that  no  one  had  been  put ' 
upon  short  allowance:  and  that,  as  if  Providence  had  deter- 1 
mined  to  aflford  an  unequivocal  proof  of  the  guilt,  a  shower  of| 


Yet  small  the  number,  and  the  fortune  blest 
Of  those  who  in  the  stormy  deep  foimd  rest, 
Weigh'd  with  the  unremember'd  millions  more. 
That  'scaped  the  sea  to  perish  on  the  shore, 
By  the  slow  pangs  of  solitary  care, 
The  earth-devouring  anguish  of  despair,' 
The  broken  heart,  which  kindness  never  heals. 
The  home-sick  passion  which  the  Negro  feels. 
When  toiling,  fainting  in  the  land  of  canes. 
His  spirit  wanders  to  his  native  plains  ; 
His  little  lovely  dwelling  there  he  sees, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  his  paternal  trees. 
The  home  of  comfort :  then  before  his  eyes 
The  terrors  of  captivity  arise. 
— 'T  was  night : — his  babes  around  him  lay  at  rest, 
Their  mother  slumber'd  on  their  father's  breast: 
A  yell  of  murder  rang  around  their  bed  ; 
They  woke  ;  their  cottage  blazed  ;  the  victims  fled: 
Forth  sprang  the  ambushd  ruffians  on  their  prey. 
They  caught,  they  bound,  they  drove  them  faraway; 
The  white  man  bought  them  at  the  mart  of  blood ; 
In  pestilential  barks  they  cross'd  the  flood  ; 
Then  were  the  wretched  ones  asunder  torn. 
To  distant  isles,  to  separate  bondage  borne. 
Denied,  though  sought  with  tears,  the  sad  relief 
That  misery  loves, — the  fellowship  of  grief. 
The  Negro,  spoil'd  of  all  that  nature  gave 
To  freeborn  man,  thus  shrunk  into  a  slave : 
His  passive  limbs,  to  measured  tasks  confined, 
Obey'd  the  impulse  of  another  mind  ; 
A  silent,  secret,  terrible  control. 
That  ruled  his  sinews,  and  repress'd  his  soul. 
Not  for  himself  he  waked  at  morning-light, 
Toil'd  the  long  day,  and  sought  repose  at  night  ; 
His  rest,  his  labor,  pastime,  strength,  and  health. 
Were  only  portions  of  a  master's  wealth ; 
His  love — O,  name  not  love,  where  Britons  doom 
The  fruit  of  love  to  slavery  from  the  womb ! 

Thus  spurn'd,  degraded,  trampled,  and  oppress'd, 
The  Negro-exile  languish'd  in  the  West, 
With  nothing  left  of  life  but  hated  breath. 
And  not  a  hope  except  the  hope,  in  death. 
To  fly  for  ever  from  the  Creole-strand, 
And  dwell  a  freeman  in  his  father-land. 

Lives  there  a  savage  ruder  than  the  slave ! 
— Cruel  as  death,  insatiate  as  the  grave,  ; 


rain  fell,  and  continued  for  three  days,  immediately  after  th., 
second  lot  of  slaves  had  been  destroyed,  by  means  of  whicli 
they  mig'it  have  filled  many  of  their  vessels  (a)  with  wnter' 
and  thus  have  prevented  all  necessity  for  the  destruction  of  th, 
third. 

"Mr.  Sharpe  was  present  at  this  trial,  and  procured  the  atj 
tendance  of  a  short-hand  writer  to  take  down  the  facts  whic  ' 
should  come  out  in  the  course  of  it.  These  he  gave  loth' 
public  afterwards.  He  communicated  them  also,  with  a  cop, 
of  the  trial,  to  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  as  the  guardians  ci 
justice  upon  the  seas,  and  to  the  Duke  of  Portland,  as  principf 
minister  of  state.  No  notice,  however,  was  taken  by  any  c. 
these  of  the  information  which  had  been  thus  sent  them."- 
Clarkson's  History  of  the  Molition,  etc.,  page  95—97.  j 

1  The  Negroes  sometimes,  in  deep  and  irrecoverable  mclao 
choly,  waste  themselves  away,  by  secretly  swallowing  largj 
quantities  of  earth.  It  is  remarkable  that  "earth-eating,"  as  i 
is  called,  is  an  infectious,  and  even  a  social  malady:  plantf! 
tions  have  been  occasionally  almost  depopulated,  by  the  slave  i 
with  one  consent,  betaking  themselves  to  this  strange  practici 
which  speedily  brings  them  to  a  miserable  and  premature  em 
(a)  It  appeared  that  they  filled  six. 

200 


THE  WEST  INDIES. 


n 


False  a?  the  winds  that  round  his  vessel  blow, 
Remorseless  as  the  gulf  that  yawns  below. 
Is  he  who  toils  upon  the  wafting  flood, 
A  Christian  broker  in  the  trade  of  blood : 
Boisterous  in  speech,  in  action  prompt  and  bold. 
He  buys,  he  sells, — he  steals,  he  kills,  for  gold. 
At  noon,  when  sky  and  ocean,  calm  and  clear, 
Bend  round  his  bark,  one  blue  unbroken  sphere ; 
When  dancing  dolphins  sparkle  through  the  brine. 
And  sunbeam  circles  o'er  the  waters  shine ; 
He  sees  no  beauty  in  the  heaven  serene, 
No  soul-enchanting  sweetness  in  the  scene, 
But,  darkly  scowhng  at  the  glorious  day, 
Curses  the  winds  that  loiter  on  their  way. 
When  swoln  with  hurricanes  the  billows  rise, 
To  meet  the  lightning  midway  from  the  skies  ; 
When  from  the  unburthen'd  hold  his  shrieking  slaves 
Are  cast,  at  midnight,  to  the  hungry  waves  : 
Not  for  his  victims  strangled  in  the  deeps, 
Not  for  his  crimes,  the  harden'd  pirate  weeps, 
I  But  grimly  smiling,  when  the  storm  is  o'er, 
I  Counts  his  sure  gains,  and  hurries  back  for  more.' 

Lives  there  a  reptile  baser  than  the  slave  ?  ^ 
— Loathsome  as  death,  corrupted  as  the  grave. 
See  the  dull  Creole,  at  his  pompous  board, 
Attendant  vassals  cringing  round  their  lord : 
Satiate  with  food,  his  hea\y  eye-lids  close, 
Voluptuous  minions  fan  him  to  repose  ; 
Prone  on  the  noon-day  couch  he  lolls  in  vain, 
Delirious  slumbers  rock  his  maudlin  brain ; 

•  He  starts  in  horror  from  bewildering  dreams , 
His  bloodshot  eye  with  fire  and  frenzy  gleams. 
He  stalks  abroad ;  through  all  his  wonted  rounds. 
The  Negro  trembles,  and  the  la.sh  resounds. 
And  cries  of  anguish,  shrilling  through  the  air, 
To  distant  fields  his  dread  approach  declare. 
Mark,  as  he  passes,  every  head  declined ; 
Then  slowly  raised, — to  curse  him  from  behind. 

.  This  is  the  veriest  wretch  on  nature's  face, 
Own'd  by  no  country,  spum'd  by  every  race ; 
The  tether'd  tyrant  of  one  narrow  span. 
The  bloated  vampire  of  a  living  man. 
His  frame, — a  fungous  form,  of  dunghill  birth. 
That  taints  the  air,  and  rots  above  the  earth : 
His  soul ; — has  Tip.  a  soul,  whose  sensual  breast 
Of  selfish  passions  is  a  serpent's  nest  ? 
Who  follows,  headlong,  ignorant,  and  blind, 

,  The  vague  brute-instinct  of  an  idiot  mind ; 

;  Whose  heart,  'midst   scenes  of  suffering  senseless 
grown, 

.'  E'en  from  his  mother's  lap  was  chill'd  to  stone  ; 

1  Whose  torpid  pulse  no  social  feelings  move ; 
A  stranger  to  the  tenderness  of  love  ; 
His  motley  haram  charms  his  gloating  eye, 

\  Where  ebon,  brown,  and  olive  beauties  vie ; 


:     1  See  Note  1,  page  16,  col.  1. 

:■  2  The  character  of  the  Creole  Planter  here  drawn  is  justified 
both  by  reason  and  fact :  it  is  no  monster  of  imagination,  though, 
for  the  credit  of  human  nature,  we  may  hope  that  it  is  a  mon- 
ster as  rare  as  it  is  shocking.  It  is  the  double  curse  of  slavery 
to  degrade  all  who  are  concerned  with  it,  doing  nr  suffering. 

'The  slave  himself  is  the  lowest  in  the  scale  of  human  beinss, — 
except  the  slave-dealer.  Dr.  Pinkard's  JTotes  on  the  West 
Indies,  and  Captain  .'^tedman''s  Account  of  Surinam,  afford  ex- 
amples of  the  cruelty,  ignorance,  sloth,  and  sensuality  of  Creole 
planters,  particularly  in  Dutch  Guiana,  which  fully  equal  the 
epitome  of  vice  and  abomination  exhibited  in  these  lines. 

26 


His  children,  sprung  alike  from  sloth  and  vice, 

Are  born  his  slaves,  and  loved  at  market  price. 

Has  he  a  soul  '. — With  his  deparling  breath, 

A  form  shall  hail  hirn  at  ihe  gates  of  death, 

The  spectre  Conscience,— shrieking  through  the  gloom, 

"  Man,  we  shall  meet  again  beyond  the  tomb." 

Oh,  Africa!  amidst  thy  children's  woes. 
Did  earth  and  heaven  conspire  to  aid  thy  foes  ? 
No,  thou  hadst  vengeance — From  thy  northern  shores 
Sallied  the  lawless  corsairs  of  the  Moors, 
And  back  on  Europe's  guilty  nations  hurl'd 
Thy  wrongs  and  sufferings  in  the  sister  world  : 
Deep  in  thy  dungeons  Christians  clank'd  their  chains. 
Or  toil'd  and  perish'd  on  thy  parching  plains. 

But  where  thine  offspring  crouch'd  beneath  the  yoke, 
In  heavier  peals  the  avenging  thunder  broke. 
— Leagtied  with  rapacious  rovers  of  the  main, 
Hayti's  barbarian  hunters  harass'd  Spaui,' 
A  mammoth  race,  invincible  in  might, 
Rapine  and  massacre  their  dire  dehght, 
Peril  their  element :  o'er  land  and  flood 
They  carried  fire,  and  qiicnch'd  the  flam.es  with  blood ; 
Despairing  captives  hail'd  them  from  the  coasts, 
They  rush'd  to  conquest,  led  by  Carib  ghosts. 

Tremble,  Britannia !  while  thine  islands  tell 
The  appalling  mysteries  of  Obi's  spell ;  - 
The  wild  JNIaroons,  impregnable  and  free. 
Among  the  mountain-holds  of  liberty, 
Sudden  as  lightning  darted  on  their  foe, 
Seen  like  the  flash,  remember 'd  like  the  blow. 

While  Gallia  boasts  of  dread  Marengo's  fight. 
And  Hohenlinden's  slaughter-deluged  night, 
Her  spirit  sinks ; — the  sinews  of  the  brave, 
That  crippled  Europe,  shrunk  before  the  Slave ; 
The  Demon-spectres  of  Domingo  rise. 
And  all  her  triumphs  vanish  from  her  eyes. 

God  is  a  Spirit,  veil'd  from  human  sight, 
In  secret  darkness  of  eternal  light  ; 
Through  all  the  gloiy  of  his  works  we  trace 
The  hidings  of  his  counsel  and  his  face ; 
Nature,  and  time,  and  change,  and  fate  fulfil, 
L^nknown.  unknowing,  his  mysterious  will ; 
Mercies  and  judgm.ents  mark  him,  every  hour, 
Supreme  in  grace,  and  infinite  in  power: 
Oft  o'er  the  Eden-islands  of  the  W^est, 
In  floral  pomp,  and  verdant  beauty  drest, 
Roll  the  dark  clouds  of  his  awaken'd  ire : 
— Thunder  and  earthquake,  whirlwind,  flood,  and  fire, 
'Midst  reeling  mountains  and  disparting  plains. 
Tell  the  pale  world, — "  the  God  of  vengeance  reigns." 

Nor  in  the  majesty  of  storms  alone,^ 
The  Eternal  makes  his  dread  displeasure  known ; 


1  Alluding  to  the  freebooters  and  buccaneers  who  infested  tho 
Caribbean  =eas  during  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries, 
and  were  equally  renowned  for  their  valor  and  brutality. 

2  See  Dallas's  Histoni  of  the  Maronvs,  among  the  moun- 
tains of  Jamaica;  also,  Dr.  JMosfiei/'s  Treatise  on  Sv^ar. 

3  For  minute  and  afflictins  details  of  the  origin  and  progress 
of  the  yellow  fever  in  an  individual  subject,  see  Dr.  Pivkard's 
JVotfs  on  the  West  Indies,  vol.  iii,  particularly  Letter  XII  m 
which  the  writer,  from  experience,  describes  its  horrors  ftaJ 
sufferings 

201 


18 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  his  command  the  pestilence  abhorr'd 

Spares  the  pooi'  slave,  and  smites  the  haughty  lord 

While  to  the  tomb  he  sees  his  friend  consign'd, 

Foreboding  melancholy  sinks  his  mind. 

Soon  at  his  heart  he  feels  the  monster's  fangs, 

They  tear  his  vitals  with  convulsive  pangs : 

The  light  is  anguish  to  his  eye,  the  air 

Sepulchral  vapors  laden  with  despair ; 

Now  frenzy-horrors  rack  his  whirling  brain, 

Tremendous  pulses  throb  (hrough  every  vein ; 

The  firm  earth  shrinks  beneath  his  torture-bed, 

The  sky  in  ruins  rushes  o'er  his  head ; 

He  rolls,  he  rages  in  consuming  fires, 

Till  nature,  spent  with  agony,  expires. 


PART  IV. 


ARGlTME?sT. 

The  Moravian  Brethren. — Their  missions  in  Green- 
land, Korth  America,  and  the  West  Indies. — 
Christian  Negroes. — The  Advocates  of  the  Negroes 
in  England. — Gran\-ille  Sharpe, — Clarkson, — Wil- 
berforce, — Pitt, — Fox, — The  Nation  itself — The 
Abolition  of  the  Slave  Trade. — The  future  State 
of  the  West  Indies, — of  Africa, — of  the  Whole 
World. — The  Millennium. 


Was  there  no  mercy,  mother  of  the  slave ! 
No  friendly  hand  to  succor  and  to  save, 
While  commerce  thus  thy  captive  tribes  oppress'd. 
And  lowering  vengeance  linger'd  o'er  the  west  ? 
Yes,  Africa!  beneath  the  stranger's  rod 
They  found  the  freedom  of  the  sons  of  God. 

When  Europe  languish 'd  in  barbarian  gloom, 
Beneath  the  ghostly  tyranny  of  Rome, 
Whose  second  empire,  cowl'd  and  mitred,  burst 
A  phoenix  from  the  ashes  of  the  first  ; 
From  Persecution's  piles,  by  bigots  fired. 
Among  Bohemian  mountains  Truth  retired  ; 
There,  'midst  rude  rocks,  in  lonely  glens  obscure, 
She  found  a  people  scatter'd,  scnrn'd,  and  poor, 
A  little  flock  through  quiet  valleys  led, 
A  Christian  Israel  in  the  desert  fed, 
While  ravening  wolves,  that  scorn'd  the  shepherd's 

hand. 
Laid  w^aste  God's  heritage  through  every  land. 
With  these  the  lovely  exile  sojourn'd  long ; 
Soothed  b»  her  presence,  solaced  by  her  song, 
They  toil'd  through  danger,  trials,  and  distress, 
A  band  of  Virgins  in  the  wilderness, 
With  burning  lamps,  amid  their  secret  bowers, 
Counting  the  watches  of  the  weary  hours, 
In  patient  hope  the  Bridegroom's  voice  to  hear, 
And  see  his  banner  in  the  clouds  appear  : 
But  when  the  morn  returning  cliased  the  night, 
These  stars,  that  shone  in  darkness,  sunk  in  light': 
I/Uther,  like  Phosphor,  led  the  conquering  day, 
His  meek  forerunners  waned,  and  pass'd  away.' 


1  The  context  preceding  and  followins  this  line  alludes  to  the 
iild  Bohemian  and  Moravian  Brethren,  who  flourished  long  he- 
lore  the  Reformation,  but  afterwards  were  almost  lost  among 
the  Protestants  till  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  f-entury,  when 
their  ancient  episcopal  church  was  revived  in  Lusatia,  by  some 
•efugees  from  Moravia. — See  Crantz's  Ancient  and  Modem 


Ages  roll'd  by,  the  turf  perennial  bloom'd 
O'er  the  lorn  relics  of  those  saints  entomb'd  ; 
No  miracle  proclaim'd  their  power  divine, 
No  kings  adorn'd,  no  pilgrims  kiss'd  their  shrine  ; 
Cold  and  forgotten  in  the  grave  they  slept  : 
But  God  remember'd  them  : — their  Father  kept 
A  faithful  remnant ; — o'er  their  native  clime 
His  Spirit  moved  in  his  appointed  time  ; 
The  race  revived  at  his  almighty  breath, 
A  seed  to  serve  him,  from  the  dust  of  death. 
"  Go  forth,  my  sons,  through  heathen  realms  proclaim 
Mercy  to  Sinners  in  a  Sa\ior's  name  :" 
Thus  spake  the  Lord  ;  they  heard,  and  they  obey'd, 
— Greenland  lay  wrapt  in  nature's  heaviest  shade ; 
Thither  the  ensign  of  the  cross  they  bore ; 
The  gaunt  barbarians  met  them  on  the  shore  ,• 
With  joy  and  wonder  hailing  from  afar. 
Through  polar  storms,  the  light  of  Jacob's  star. 

Where  roll  Ohio's  streams,  Missouri's  floods. 
Beneath  the  umbrage  of  eternal  woods, 
The  Red  Man  roam'd,  a  hunter-warrior  wild ; 
On  him  the  everlasting  Gospel  smiled  ; 
His  heart  was  awed,  confounded,  pierced,  subdued. 
Divinely  melted,  moulded,  and  renew 'd  ; 
The  bold  base  savage,  nature's  harshest  clod, 
Rose  from  the  dust  the  image  of  his  God. 

And  thou,  poor  Negro !  scorn'd  of  all  mankind ; 
Thou  dumb  and  impotent,  and  deaf  and  blind ; 
Thou  dead  in  spirit!  toil-degraded  slave, 
Crush 'd  by  the  curse  on  Adam  to  the  grave ; 
The  messengers  of  peace,  o'er  land  and  sea, 
That  sought  the  sons  of  sorrow,  stoop'd  to  thee. 
— The  captive  raised  his  slow  and  sullen  eye ; 
He  knew  no  friend,  nor  deem'd  a  friend  was  nigh, 
Till  the  sweet  tones  of  Pity  touch'd  his  ears, 
And  Mercy  bathed  his  bosom  with  her  tears ; 
Strange  were  those  tones,  to  him  those  tears  wen 

strange ; 
He  wept  and  wonder'd  at  the  mighty  change. 
Felt  the  quick  pang  of  keen  compunction  dart, 
And  heard  a  small  still  whisper  in  his  heart, 
A  voice  from  Heaven,  that  bade  the  outcast  rise 
From  shame  on  earth  to  glory  in  the  skies. 

From  isle  to  isle  the  welcome  tidings  ran ; 
The  slave  that  heard  them  started  into  man : 
Like  Peter,  sleeping  in  his  chains,  he  lay, — 
The  angel  came,  his  night  was  turn'd  to  day ; 
"  Arise  !"  his  fetters  fall,  his  slumbers  flee ; 
He  wakes  to  life,  he  springs  to  liberty. 

No  more  to  demon-gods,  in  hideous  forms, 
He  pray'd  for  earthquakes,  pestilence,  and  storms. 
In  secret  agony  devour'd  the  earth. 
And,  wliile  he  spared  his  mother,  cursed  his  birth. 


History  of  the  Brethrpn.  Histories  of  the  missions  of  t 
Brethren  in  Greenland,  North  America,  and  the  \Wsf  Indid 
have  been  published  in  Germany  :  those  of  the  two  former  ha  i 
been  translated  into  English. — See  Crantz's  History  of  Gret 
land,  and  LoskieVs  History  of  the  Brethren  amon^  the  India 
in  JVorth  America.  It  is  only  justice  here  to  observe,  that  Chr 
tians  of  other  denominations  have  exerted  themselves  with  grf 
success  in  the  conversion  of  the  ne'-'rocs.  No  invidious  preft; 
ence  is  intended  to  be  given  to  the  Moravians;  but,  knowi, 
them  best,  the  author  particularized  this  society.  , 

1  See  Notes,  page  16. 

202  ;. 


THE  WEST  INDIES. 


19 


To  Heaven  the  Christian  Negro  sent  his  sighs, 
In  morning  vows  and  evening  sacrifice ; 
He  pray'd  for  blessings  to  descend  on  those 
That  dealt  to  him  the  cup  of  many  woes ; 
Thought  of  his  home  in  Africa  forlorn, 
Yet,  while  he  wept,  rejoiced  thai  he  was  born. 
No  longer  burning  with  unholy  fires. 
He  wallow'd  in  the  dust  of  base  desires ; 
Ennobling  virtue  fix'd  his  hopes  above, 
Enlarged  his  heart,  and  sanctified  his  love : 
With  humble  steps  the  paths  of  peace  he  trod, 
A  happy  pilgrim,  for  he  walk'd  with  God. 

Still  slowly  spread  the  daw^n  of  life  and  day. 
In  death  and  darkness  Pagan  myriads  lay : 
Stronger  and  heavier  chains  than  those  that  bind 
The  captive's  limbs,  enthrall'd  his  abject  mind ; 
The  yoke  of  man  his  neck  indignant  bore. 
The  yoke  of  sin  his  willing  spirit  wore. 

Meanwhile,  among  the  great,  the  brave,  the  free, 
The  matchless  race  of  Albion  and  the  sea. 
Champions  arose  to  plead  the  Negro's  cause  ; 
In  the  wide  breach  of  violated  laws. 
Through  which  the  torrent  of  injustice  roH'd, 
[  They  stood  : — with  zeal  unconquerably  bold, 
I  They  raised  their  voices,  stretch'd  their  arms  to  save 
i  From  chains  the  freeman,  from  despair  the  slave ; 
;  The  exile's  heart-sick  anguish  to  assuage, 
And  rescue  Afric  from  the  spoiler's  rage. 
She,  miserable  mother,  from  the  shore, 
Age  after  age,  beheld  the  barks  that  bore 
;  Her  tribes  to  bondage  : — with  distraction  WTung, 
'■■  Wild  as  the  lioness  that  seeks  her  j'^oung, 
:  She  flash'd  unheeded  lightnings  from  her  eyes ; 
I  Her  inmost  deserts  echoing  to  her  cries  ; 
'  Till  agony  the  sense  of  suffering  stole, 
'  And  stern  unconscious  grief  benumb'd  her  soul. 
So  Niobe,  when  all  her  race  were  slain, 
,  i  In  ecstacy  of  woe  forgot  her  pain : 
''  Cold  in  her  eye  serenest  horror  shone, 
;  While  pitying  Nature  soothed  her  into  stone. 

ft     Thus  Africa,  entranced  with  sorrow,  stood, 
I  Her  fix'd  eye  gleaming  on  the  restless  flood  : 
1  — When  Sharpe,  on  proud  Britannia's  charter'd  shore,' 
•  From  Libyan  limbs  the  unsanction'd  fetters  tore. 
And  taught  the  world,  that  while  she  rules  the  waves, 
Her  soil  is  freedom  to  the  feet  of  slaves  : 
— When  Clarkson  his  victorious  course  began,** 
Unyielding  in  the  cause  of  God  and  man, 
Wise,  patient,  persevering  to  the  end, 
,  No  guile  could  thwart,  no  power  his  purpose  bend. 
He  rose  o'er  Afric  like  the  sun  in  smiles, — 
He  rests  in  glory  on  the  western  isles : 
— When  Wilberforce,  the  minister  of  grace, 
->  I  The  new  Las  Casas  of  a  ruin'd  race,' 


I    1  Granville  Sharpe,  Esq.   after  a  strue?le  of  many  years, 
^  (HRainst  authority  and  precedent,  established  in  our  courts  of 

!  justice  the  la7c  of  the  Constitutiov,  that  there  are  no  slaves 
';  JEngland,  and  that  the  fact  of  a  Negro  being  found  in  this  coun- 
j  |try  is  of  iiself  a  proof  that  he  is  a  freeman. 
»  1  2  No  panegyric  which  a  conscientious  writer  can  bestow,  or 
'■  .a  good  man  may  receive,  will  be  deemed  extravagant  for  the 
>■  [modest  merits  of  Mr.  Clarkson,  by  those  who  are  acquainted 
*  Fwith  his  labors.— See  his  History  of  the  Abolition,  etc..  2  vols 
■'  I  _  3  The  author  of  this  poem  confesses  himself  under  many  ob 
■'"  I  ligations  to  Mr.  Wilberforce's  eloquent  letter  on  the  Abolition 
^'  of  the  Slave  Trade,  addressed  to  the  Freeholders  of  Yorkshire, 
and  published  in  1807,  previous  to  the  decision  of  the  question, 


With  angel-might  opposed  the  rage  of  hell. 
And  fought  like  Michael,  till  the  dragon  fell 


Las  Casas  has  been  accused  of  being  a  promoter,  if  not  tM 
orisinal  projector,  of  the  Negro  Slave  Trade  to  the  Wosi 
Indies.  The  Abbe  Gregoire  some  years  ago  published  a  de 
fence  of  this  great  and  good  man  against  the  degrading  impu- 
tation. The  following,  among  other  arguments  which  he  ad- 
vances, are  well  worthy  of  consideration. 

The  slave  trade  between  Africa  and  the  West  Indies  com 
menced,  according  to  Herrera  himself,  the  first  and  indeed  the 
only  accuser  of  Las  Casas,  nineteen  years  before  the  epoch  of 
his  pretended  project 

Herrera  (from  whom  other  authors  have  negligently  taken  the 
fact  for  granted,  on  his  bare  word)  does  not  quote  a  single  au- 
thority in  support  of  his  assertion,  that  Las  Casas  recommend- 
ed the  importation  of  Negroes  into  Hispaniola.  The  charge  it- 
self was  first  published  thirty-five  years  after  the  death  of  Las 
Casas.  All  writers  antecedent  to  Herrera,  and  contemporary 
with  him,  are  silent  on  the  subject,  although  several  of  these 
were  the  avowed  enemies  of  Las  Casas.  Herrera's  veracity  on 
otherpointsismuch  disputed,  and  he  displays  violent  prejudices 
against  the  man  whom  he  accuses.  It  may  be  added,  that  he 
was  greatly  indebted  to  him  for  information  as  an  historian  of 
the  Indies. 

In  the  numerous  writings  of  Las  Casas  himself,  still  extant, 
there  is  not  one  word  in  favor  of  slavery  of  any  kind,  but  they 
abound  with  reasoning  and  invective  against  it  in  every  shape; 
and,  among  his  eloquent  appeals,  and  comprehensive  plans  on 
behalf  of  the  oppressed  Indians,  there  is  not  a  solitary  hint  in 
recommendation  of  the  African  Slave  Trade.  He  only  twice 
mentions  the  Negroes  through  all  his  multifarious  writings;  in 
one  instance  he  merely  names  them  as  living  in  the  islands  (in 
a  manuscript  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris);  and  in  the  same 
work  he  proposes  no  other  remedy  for  the  miseries  of  the  abo- 
riginal inhabitants,  than  the  suppression  of  the  repartiinicntos, 
ordivisions  of  the  people,  with  the  soil  on  which  they  were  bora. 
In  another  memorial,  after  detailing  at  great  length  the  meas- 
ures which  ought  to  be  pursued  for  the  redress  of  the  Indians 
(the  proper  opportunity,  certainly,  to  advocate  the  Negro  Slave 
Trade,  if  he  approved  of  it),  he  adds, — "  The  Indians  are  not 
more  tormented  by  their  masters  and  the  different  public  officers, 
than  by  their  servants  and  by  the  JSTesroes." 

The  original  accusation  of  Las  Casas,  translated  from  the 
words  of  Herrera,  is  as  follows  : — "  The  licentiate  Bartholomew 
Las  Casas,  perceiving  that  his  plans  experienceil  on  all  sides 
great  difficulties,  and  that  the  expectations  which  he  had  form- 
ed from  his  connexion  with  the  High  Chancellor,  and  the  fa- 
vorable opinion  the  latter  entertained  of  him,  had  not  produced 
any  effect,  projected  other  expedients,  such  as,  to  procure  for 
the  Castilians  established  in  the  Indies  a  cargo  of  J^cgroes,  to 
relieve  the  Indians  in  the  culture  of  the  earth  and  the  labor  of 
the  mines ;  also  to  obtain  a  great  number  of  working  men  (from 
Europe),  who  should  pass  over  into  those  regions  with  certain 
privileges,  and  on  certain  conditions,  which  he  detailed." 

Let  this  statement  be  compared  with  Dr.  Robertson's  most 
exaggerated  account,  avowedly  taken  from  Herrera  alone,  and 
let  every  man  judge  for  himself,  whether  one  of  the  most  zeal- 
ous and  indefatigable  advocates  of  freedom  that  ever  existed, 
"  while  he  contended  earnestly  for  the  liberty  of  the  people 
born  in  one  quarterof  the  globe,  labored  to  enslave  the  inhabit- 
ants of  another  region,  and,  in  his  zeal  to  save  the  Americans 
from  the  yoke,  pronounced  it  to  he  lawful  and  expedient  to  im- 
pose one  still  heavier  on  the  Africans." — Robertson's  History 
of  America,  Vol.  I,  Part  III.  But  the  circumstance  connected 
by  Dr.  Robertson  with  this  supposed  scheme  of  Las  Casas  is 
unwarranted  by  any  authority,  and  makes  his  own  of  no  value. 
He  adds, — "  The  plan  of  Las  Casas  was  adopted.  Charles  V. 
granted  a  patent  to  one  of  his  Flemish  favorites,  containing  an 
exclusive  right  of  importing  four  thousand  Negroes  into  Ameri- 
ca." Herrera,  the  only  author  whom  Dr.  Robertson  pretends 
to  follow,  does  not,  in  any  place,  associate  his  random  charge 
against  Las  Casas  with  tViis  acknowledged  and  most  infamous 
act.  The  crime  of  having  first  recommended  the  importation 
of  African  slaves  into  the  American  islands  is  attributed,  by 
three  writers  of  the  life  of  Cardinal  Ximenes  (who  rendered 
himself  illustrious  by  his  opposition  to  the  trade  in  its  infancy), 
to  Chievres,  and  by  two  others,  to  the  Flemish  vobilitij  them 
selves,  who  obtained  the  monopoly  aforementioned,  and  which 
was  sold  to  some  "  Genoese  merchants  for  2o,000  ducats:  and 
they  were  the  first  who  brought  into  a  regular  form  that  com- 
merce for  slaves  between  Africa  and  America,  which  hassinco 
been  carried  on  to  such  an  amazing  extent." — It  is  unnecessary 
to  say  more  on  this  subject. — A  tianslation  of  Gregoire's  d»- 

203 


20 


MOx\TGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— When  Pitt,  supreme,  amid  the  senate,  rose 

The  Negro's  friend,  among  the  Negro's  foes  ; 

Vet  while  his  tone  Uke  heaven's  high  thunder  broke, 

No  fire  descended  to  consume  the  3'oke : 

— When  Fox,  all  eloquent,  for  freedom  stood, 

With  speech  resistless  as  the  voice  of  blood, 

The  voice  that  cries  through  all  the  patriot's  veins, 

When  at  his  feet  his  country  groans  in  chains ; 

The  voice  that  whispers  in  the  mother's  breast, 

When  smiles  her  infant  in  his  rosy  rest ; 

Of  power  to  bid  the  storm  of  passion  roll, 

Or  touch  with  sweetest  tenderness  the  soul — 

He  spake  in  vain; — till,  with  his  latest  breath, 

He  broke  the  spell  of  Africa  in  death. 

The  Muse  to  whom  the  lyre  and  lute  belong, 
WTiose  song  of  freedom  is  her  noblest  song, 
The  lyre  with  awful  indignation  swept, 
O'er  the  sweet  lute  in  silent  sorroAv  wept, 
— When  Albion's    crimes  drew  thunder  from  her 

tongue, 
— When  Afrie's  woes  o'erwhelm'd  her  while  she 

sung, 
Lamented  Cowper !  in  thy  path  I  tread  ; 
O !  that  on  me  were  thy  meek  spirit  shed ! 
The  woes  that  wring  my  bosom  once  were  thine ; 
Be  all  thy  virtues,  all  thy  genius,  mine  I 
Peace  to  thy  soul !  thy  God  thy  portion  be  ; 
And  in  his  presence  may  I  rest  with  thee  ! 

Quick  at  the  call  of  Virtue,  Freedom,  Trutli, 
Weak  withering  Age  and  strong  aspiring  Youth 
Alike  the  expanding  power  of  pity  felt! 
The  coldest,  hardest  hearts  began  to  melt ; 
From  breast  to  breast  the  (lame  of  justice  glow'd ; 
Wide  o'er  its  banks  the  Nile  of  mercy  flow'd ; 
Through  all  the  isle  the  gradual  waters  swell'd ; 
Mammon  in  vain  the  encircling  flood  repell'd  ; 
O'erthrown  at  length,  like  Pharaoh  and  his  host, 
His  shipwreck'd  hopes  lay  scatter'd  round  the  coast. 

High  on  her  rock  in  solitary  state, 
Sublimely  musing,  pale  Britaimia  sate  : 
Her  awful  forehead  on  her  spear  reclined, 
Her  robe  and  tresses  streaming  with  the  wind  ; 
Chill  through  her  frame  foreboding  tremors  crept; 
The  Mother  thought  upon  her  sons,  and  wept : 
— She  thought  of  Nelson  in  the  battle  slain, 
And  his  last  signal  beaming  o'er  the  main;^ 
In  Glory's  circling  arms  the  hero  bled. 
While  Victory  bound  the  laurel  on  his  head  ; 
At  once  immortal,  in  both  worlds,  became 
His  soaring  spirit  and  abiding  name ; 
— She  thought  of  Pitt,  heart-broken  on  his  bier ; 
And  "O  my  Country!"  echoed  in  her  ear; 
— She  thought  of  Fox; — she  heard  him  faintly  speak. 
His  parting  breath  grew  cold  upon  her  cheek, 
His  dying  accents  trembled  into  air ; 
'  Spare  injured  Africa !  the  Negro  spare  ! " 

She  started  from  her  trance ! — and  round  the  shore, 
Beheld  her  supplicating  sons  once  more 
Pleading  the  suit  so  long,  so  vainly  tried, 
Renew'd,  resisted,  promised,  pledged,  denied, 

fence  of  Las  Casas  was  published  in  1803,  by  H.  D.  Symonds, 
Pa  ternoster-Row. 
1  "England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty." 


The  Negro's  claim  to  all  his  Maker  gave, 
And  all  the  tyrant  ravish'd  from  the  slave. 
Her  yielding  heart  confess'd  the  righteous  claim 
;Sorrow  had  soflen'd  it,  and  love  o'ercame ; 
Shame  flush'd  her  noble  cheek,  her  bosom  burn'd; 
To  helpless,  hopeless  Africa  she  tum'd  ; 
She  saw  her  sister  in  the  mourner's  face. 
And  rush'd  with  tears  into  her  dark  endjrace  : 
"All  hail!"  exclaim'd  the  empress  of  the  sea, — 
"  Thy  chains  are  brokf  n — Africa,  be  free  ! " 

Muse  !  take  the  harp  of  prophecy : — behold ! 
The  glories  of  a  brighter  age  unfold  : 
Friends  of  the  outcast !  view  the  accomplish'd  plaa. 
The  Negro  towering  to  the  height  of  man. 
The  blood  of  Romans,  Saxons,  Cauls,  and  Danes, 
Swell'd  the  rich  fountain  of  the  Briton's  veins; 
Unmingled  streams  a  warmer  life  impart, 
And  quicker  pulses,  to  the  Negro's  heart : 
A  dusky  race,  beneath  the  evening  sun. 
Shall  blend  their  spousal  currents  into  one : 
Is  beauty  bound  to  color,  sliape,  or  air  ? 
No :  God  created  all  liis  offspring  fair. 
T\'rant  and  slave  their  tribes  shall  never  see, 
For  God  created  all  his  offspring  free ; 
\\Tien  Justice,  leagued  with  Mercy,  from  above 
Shall  reign  in  all  the  liberty  of  love ; 
And  the  sweet  shores  beneath  the  balmy  west 
Again  shall  be  "  the  islands  of  the  blest." 

Unutterable  mysteries  of  fate 
Involve,  O  Africa  I  thy  future  state. 
— On  Niger's  banks,  in  lonely  beauty  wild, 
A  Negro-mother  carols  to  her  child  : 
"  Son  of  my  widow'd  love,  my  orphan  joy! 
Avenge  thy  father's  murder,  O,  my  boy!" 
Along  those  banks  the  fearless  infavt  strays. 
Bathes  in  the  stream,  among  the  eddies  plays ; 
See  the  hoij,  bounding  through  the  eager  race ; 
The  fierce  youth,  shouting  foremost  in  the  chase,      ; 
Drives  the  grim  lion  from  his  ancient  woods. 
And  smites  the  crocodile  amidst  his  floods. 
To  giant  strength  in  unshorn  manhood  grown, 
He  haunts  the  wilderness,  he  dwells  alone.  I 

A  tigress  with  her  whelps  to  seize  him  sprung; 
He  tears  the  mother,  and  he  tames  the  young 
In  the  drear  cavern  of  their  native  rock ; 
Thither  wild  slaves  and  fell  banditti  flock : 
He  heads  their  hordes ;  they  burst,  like  torrid  rair 
In  death  and  devastation  o'er  die  plains; 
Stronger  and  !)older  grows  his  ruffian  band, 
Prouder  his  heart,  more  terrible  his  hand. 
He  spreads  liis  banner;  crowding  from  afari 
Innumerable  armies  rush  to  war ; 
Resistless  as  the  pillar'd  whirlwinds  fly 
O'er  Libyan  sands,  revolving  to  the  sky. 
In  fire  and  wrath  through  every  realm  they  run ; 
Where  the  noon-shadow  shrinks  beneath  the  sun 
Till  at  the  Conqueror's  feet,  from  sea  to  sea, 
A  hundred  nations  bow  the  servile  knee, 
And,  throned  in  nature's  unreveal'd  domains, 
The  Jenghis  Khan  of  Africa  he  reigns. 

Dim  through  the  night  of  these  tempestuous  yean 
A  Sabbath  dawn  o'er  Africa  appeai-s  ; 

204 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


21 


Then  shall  her  neck  from  Europe's  yoke  be  freed, 
And  healing  arts  to  hideous  arms  succeed  ; 
At  home  fraternal  bonds  her  tribes  shall  bind, 
Commerce  abroad  espouse  them  with  mankind, 
While  Truth  shall  build,  and  pure  Religion  bless 
The  church  of  God  amidst  the  wilderness. 

Nor  in  the  isles  and  Africa  alone 
Be  the  Redeemer's  cross  and  triumph  known: 
Father  of  Mercies !  speed  the  promised  hour ; 
,Thy  kingdom  come  with  all-restoring  power; 
Peace,  virtue,  knowledge,  spread  from  pole  to  pole, 
As  round  the  world  the  ocean  waters  roll ! 


— Hope  waits  the  morning  of  celestial  light: 
Time  plumes  his  wings  for  everlasting  flight; 
Unchanging  seasons  have  their  march  begun : 
Millennial  years  are  hastening  to  the  sun ; 
Seen  through  thick  clouds,  by  Faith's  transpiercing 

eyes. 
The  New  Creation  shines  in  purer  skies. 
— All  hail ! — the  age  of  crime  and  suffering  ends; 
The  reign  of  righteousness  from  heaven  descends  ; 
Vengeance  for  ever  sheathes  the  afflicting  sword ; 
Death  is  destroy'd,  and  Paradise  restored ; 
Man,  rising  from  the  ruins  of  his  fall, 
Is  one  with  God,  and  God  is  All  in  All. 


mn  SSForlti  tiefore  tttc  iFloo?!. 


PREFACE. 


There  is  no  authentic  historj'  of  the  world  from 
the  Creation  to  the  Deluge,  besides  that  which  is 
found  in  the  first  chapters  of  Genesis.  He,  therefore, 
who  fixes  the  date  of  a  fictitious  narrative  within  that 
period,  is  under  obligation  to  no  other  authority  what- 
ever for  conformity  of  manners,  events,  or  even  lo- 
calities :  he  has  full  power  to  accommodate  these  to 
his  peculiar  purposes,  observing  only  such  analog^' 
as  shall  consist  with  the  brief  information  contained 
in  the  sacred  records,  concerning  mankind  in  the 
earliest  ages.  The  present  writer  acknowledges,  that 
he  has  exercised  this  undoubted  right  with  great 
freedom.  Success  alone  sanctions  bold  innovation : 
if  he  has  succeeded  in  what  he  has  attempted,  he 
will  need  no  arguments  to  justify  it ;  if  he  has  mis- 
carried, none  will  avail  him.  Those  who  imagine  that 
he  has  exhibited  the  antediluvians  as  more  skilful  in 
arts  and  arras  than  can  be  supposed,  in  their  stage  of 
society,  may  read  the  Eleventh  Book  of  Paradise 
Lost  : — and  those  who  think  he  has  made  the  religion 
of  the  Patriarclis  too  evangelical,  may  read  the 
Twelfth. 

With  respect  to  the  personages  and  incidents  of  his 
story,  the  Author  ha\-ing  deliberately  adopted  them, 
under  the  conviction,  that  in  the  characters  of  the  one 
he  was  not  stepping  out  of  human  nature,  and  in  the 
construction  of  the  other  not  exceeding  the  hmits  of 
poetical  probability, — he  asks  no  favor,  he  deprecates 
no  censure,  on  behalf  of  either;  nor  shall  the  facility 
with  which  "much  malice,  and  a  little  wit"  might 
turn  into  ridicule  every  line  that  he  has  written,  deter 
him  from  leaving  the  whole  to  the  mercy  of  general 
Readers. 

But, — here  is  a  large  web  of  fiction  involving  a 
small  fact  of  Scripture!  Nothing  could  justify  a  work 
of  this  kind,  if  it  were,  in  any  way,  calculated  to 
impose  on  the  credulity,  pervert  the  principles,  or 
corrupt  the  affections,  of  its  approvers.  Here,  then, 
the  appeal  lies  to  conscience  rather  than  to  taste  ; 
and  the  decision  on  this  point  is  of  infinitely  more 
importance  to  the  Poet  than  his  name  among  men, 
or  his  interests  on  earth.  It  was  his  design,  in  this 
composition,  to  present  a  similitude  of  events,  that 
might  be  imagined  to  have  happened  in  the  first 
age  of  the  world,  in  w^hich  such  Scripture-characters 

S 


as  are  introduced  would  probably  have  acted  and 
spoken  as  they  are  here  made  to  act  and  speak.  The 
stor>'  is  told  as  a  parable  only ;  and  its  value,  in  this 
view,  must  be  determined  by  its  moral,  or  rather  by 
its  religious  influence  on  the  mind  and  on  the  heart. 
Fiction  though  it  be,  it  is  the  fiction  that  represents 
Truth ;  and  that  is  Truth, — Truth  in  the  essence, 
though  not  in  the  name  ;  Truth  in  the  spirit,  though 
not  in  the  letter. 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND. 

Many,  my  friend,  have  mourn 'd  for  Thee, 

And  yet  shall  many  mourn. 

Long  as  thy  name  on  earth  shall  be 

In  sweet  remembrance  borne, 

By  those  who  loved  Thee  here,  and  love 

Thy  spirit  still  in  realms  above. 

For  while  thine  absence  they  deplore, 

'T  is  for  themselves  they  weep  ; 

Though  they  behold  thy  face  no  more, 

In  peace  thine  ashes  sleep. 

And  o'er  the  tornb  they  lift  their  eye, 

Thou  art  not  dead.  Thou  couldst  not  die. 


In  silent  anguish,  0  my  friend ! 

When  I  recall  thy  worth. 

Thy  lovely  life,  thine  early  end, 

I  feel  estranged  from  earth  ; 

My  soul  with  thine  desires  to  rest, 

Supremely  and  for  ever  blest. 

In  loftier  mood,  I  fain  would  raise, 

With  my  victorious  breath. 

Some  fair  memorial  of  thy  praise, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  Death  ; 

Proud  wish,  and  vain ! — I  cannot  give 

The  word,  that  makes  the  dead  to  live. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  Thou  couldst  not  die . 

To  nobler  life  new-bom. 

Thou  look'st  in  pity  from  the  sky 

Upon  a  world  forlorn. 

Where  glory  is  but  dpng  flame, 

And  immortality  a  name. 

205 


22 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  didst  Thou  prize  the  Poet's  art ; 

And  when  to  Thee  I  sung, 

How  pure,  how  fervent  from  the  heart, 

The  language  of  thy  tongue  I 

In  praise  or  blame  alike  sincere, 

But  still  most  kind  when  most  severe. 

When  fii-st  this  dream  of  ancient  times 

Warm  on  my  fancy  glow'd, 

And  forth  ir:  rude  spontaneous  rhymes 

The  Song  of  \Vonder  tlow'd  ; 

Pleased  but  alarm'd,  I  saw  Thee  stand, 

And  check'd  the  fury  of  ray  hand. 

That  hand  %vith  awe  resumed  the  lyre, 

I  trembled,  doubted,  fear'd, 

Then  did  thy  voice  my  hope  inspire, 

My  soul  thy  presence  cheer'd  ; 

But  suddenly  the  light  was  flo\\'n, 

I  look'd,  and  found  myself  alone. 

Alone,  in  sickness,  care,  and  woe, 

Since  that  bereaving  day, 

With  heartless  patience,  faint  and  low 

I  trill'd  the  secret  lay, 

Afraid  to  trust  the  bold  design 

To  less  indulgent  ears  than  thine. 

'T  is  done  ; — nor  would  I  dread  to  meet 

The  worlds  repulsive  brow, 

Had  I  presented  at  thy  feet 

The  Muse's  trophy  now, 

And  gain'd  the  smile  I  long'd  to  gain, 

The  pledge  of  favor  not  in  vain. 

Full  well  I  know,  if  Thou  wert  here, 

A  pilgrim  still  with  me, — 

Dear  as  my  theme  was  once,  and  dear 

As  I  was  once  to  Thee, — 

Too  mean  to  yield  Thee  pure  delight, 

The  strains  that  now  the  world  invite. 

Yet  could  they  reach  Thee  where  thou  art. 

And  sounds  might  Spirits  move. 

Their  better,  their  diviner  part. 

Thou  surely  wouldst  approve  ; 

Though  heavenly  thoughts  are  all  thy  joy. 

And  Angel-Songs  thy  tongue  employ. 

My  task  is  o'er ;  and  I  have  wrought. 
With  self-rewarding  toil. 
To  raise  the  scatter'd  seed  of  thought 
Upon  a  desert  soil : 

0  for  soft  winds  and  clement  showers ! 

1  seek  not  fruit,  I  planted  flowers. 

Those  flowers  I  trained,  of  many  a  hue. 
Along  thy  path  to  bloom, 
And  little  thought,  that  I  must  strew 
Their  leaves  upon  thy  tomb  : 
''    — Beyond  that  tomb  I  lift  mine  eye. 
Thou  art  not  dead.  Thou  couldst  not  die. 

Farewell,  but  not  a  long  farewell ; 
In  heaven  may  I  appear, 
The  trials  of  my  faith  to  tell 
In  thy  transported  ear, 
And  sing  wth  Thee  the  eternal  strain. 
"Worthy  the  Lamb  that  once  was  slain.'' 
January  23,  1813. 


INTRODT'CTORY  JNOTE. 


No  place  having  been  found,  in  Asia,  to  corre- 
spond exacUy  wiih  the  Mosaic  description  of  the  site 
of  Paradise,  ihe  Author  of  the  following  Poem  has  dis- 
regarded both  the  learned  and  the  absurd  hypotheses 
on  the  subject  ;  and  at  once  imagining  an  inaccessi-  , 
ble  tract  of  land  at  the  confluence  of  four  rivers, 
which  after  their  junction  take  ihe  name  of  the 
largest,  and  become  the  Euphrates  of  the  ancient 
world,  he  has  placed  "the  happy  garden"  there-'* 
Milton's  noble  fiction  of  the  Mount  of  Paradise  being 
removed  by  the  deluge,  and  push'd 

Down  the  great  river  to  the  opening  gulf, 
and  there  converted  into  a  barren  isle,  implies  such 
a  change  in  the  water-courses  as  \\ill.  poetically  at 
least,  account  for  the  difllerence  between  the  scene 
of  this  story  and  the  present  face  of  the  country, 
at  the  }X)int  where  the  Tigris  and  Euphrates  meet. 
On  the  eastern  side  of  these  waters,  the  Author  sup- 
poses the  descendants  of  the  younger  Children  of 
Adam  to  dwell,  possessing  the  land  of  Eden ;  the 
rest  of  the  world  having  been  gradually  colonized 
by  emigrants  from  these,  or  peopled  by  the  posterity 
of  Cain.  In  process  of  time,  after  the  Sons  of  God 
had  formed  connexions  with  the  daughters  of  men, 
and  there  were  Giants  in  the  earth,  the  latter  assumed 
to  be  Lords  and  Rulers  over  mankind,  till  among 
themselves  arose  One,  excelling  all  his  brethren  in 
knowledge  and  power,  who  became  their  King,  and 
by  their  aid,  in  tlie  course  of  a  long  life,  subdued  all 
the  inhabited  earth,  except  the  land  of  Eden.  This 
land,  at  the  head  of  a  mighty  army,  principally  com- 
posed of  the  descendants  of  Cain,  he  has  invaded 
and  conquered,  even  to  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates, 
at  the  opening  of  the  action  of  the  poem.  It  is  only 
necessary  to  add,  that  for  the  sake  of  distinction,  the 
invaders  are  frequently  denominated  from  Cain,  as 
"  the  host  of  Cain," — "  the  force  of  Cain," — "  the 
camp  of  Cain :" — and  the  remnant  of  the  defenders 
of  Eden  are,  in  like  manner,  denominated  from  Eden. 
— The  Jews  have  an  ancient  tradition,  that  some  of 
the  Giants,  at  the  Deluge,  fled  to  the  top  of  a  high 
mountain,  and  escaped  the  ruin  that  involved  the  rest 
of  their  kindred.  In  the  tenth  Canto  of  the  following 
Poem,  a  hint  is  borrowed  from  this  tradition,  but  it  is 
made  to  \-ield  to  the  superior  authority  of  Scripture- 
testimony. 


THE 


WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


CANTO  L 


The  Invasion  of  Eden  by  the  Descendants  of  Cain. 
The  Flight  of  Javan  from  the  Camp  of  the  In- 
vaders to  the  \'alley  where  the  Patriarchs  dwelL 
The  story  of  Javan's  former  life. 


Eastward  of  Eden"s  early-peopled  plain. 
When  Abel  perish'd  by  the  hand  of  Cain. 
The  murderer  from  his  Judge's  presence  fled  : 
Thence  to  the  rising  sun  his  offspring  spread ; 

206 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


But  he,  the  fiidtive  of  care  and  guilt, 

Forsook  the  haunts  he  chose,  the  homes  he  built  ; 

While  filial  nations  hail'd  him  Sire  and  Chief, 

Empire  nor  honor  brought  his  soul  relief: 

He  found,  where'er  he  roam'd,  uncheer"d,  unblest, 

IVo  pause  from  suffering,  and  from  toil  no  rest. 

Ages  meanwhile,  as  ages  now  are  told, 
O'er  the  young  world  in  long  succession  roll'd; 
For  such  the  vigor  of  primeval  man, 
Through  number'd  centuries  his  period  ran, 
j  And  the  first  Parents  saw  their  hardy  race, 
'  O'er  the  green  wilds  of  habitable  space. 
By  tribes  and  kindred,  scatter'd  wide  and  far, 
Beneath  the  track  of  every  varying  star. 
But  as  they  multiplied  from  clime  to  clirae, 
Embolden"d  by  their  elder  brother's  crime, 
They  spurn'd  obedience  to  the  Patriarchs'  yoke, 
The  bonds  of  Nature's  fellowship  they  broke ; 
The  weak  became  the  victims  of  the  strong. 
And  Earth  was  fill'd  with  violence  and  wrong. 

Yet  long  on  Eden's  fair  and  fertile  plain, 
A  righteous  nation  dwelt,  that  knew  not  Cain  ; 
There  fruits  and  flowers,  in  genial  light  and  dew, 
Luxuriant  vines,  and  golden  harvests,  grew; 
Bv  freshening  waters  flocks  and  cattle  stray'd. 
While  Youth  and  Childhood  watch'd  them  from  the 

Shade; 
Aep,  at  his  fig-tree,  rested  from  his  toil, 
A;ii  manly  vigor  till'd  the  unfailing  soil; 
Gi'-en  sprang  the  turf,  by  holy  footsteps  trod, 
Piound  the  pure  altars  of  the  hving  God  ; 
Till  foul  Idolatry  those  altars  stain "d, 
And  lust  and  revelry  through  Eden  reign'd. 
Then  fled  the  people's  glory  and  defence, 
The  joys  of  home,  the  peace  of  innocence ; 
Sin  brought  forth  sorrows  in  perpetual  birth, 
And  the  last  light  from  heaven  forsook  the  earth. 
Save  in  one  forest-glen,  remote  and  wild, 
;  I  Where  yet  a  ray  of  lingering  mercy  smiled. 
Their  quiet  course  where  Seth  and  Enoch  ran, 
And  God  and  angels  deign'd  to  walk  with  man. 

Xow  from  the  east,  supreme  in  arts  and  arms. 
The  tribes  of  Cain,  awakening  war-alarms. 
Full  in  the  spirit  of  their  father,  came 
To  waste  their  brethren's  lands  with  sword  and  flame. 
In  vain  the  younger  race  of  Adam  rose, 
■ ,  With  force  unequal,  to  repel  their  foes ; 
'■ .  Their  fields  in  blood,  their  homes  in  ruins  lay, 

'  1 '  Their  whole  inheritance  became  a  prey  ; 

The  stars,  to  Avhom  as  Gods  they  raised  their  cry, 
'  '  RoU'd,  heedless  of  their  offerings,  through  the  sky; 
Till  ureed  on  Eden's  utmost  bounds,  at  length, 
In  fierce  despair  they  rallied  all  their  strength. 
They  fousht,  but  they  were  vanquish'd  in  the  fight. 
Captured,  or  slain,  or  scatter'd  in  the  fliglit : 
The  morning  battle-scene  at  eve  was  spread 

'■^   -With  ghastly  heaps,  the  dying  and  the  dead  ; 

-   ;The  dead  unmoum'd,  unburied  left  to  lie, 

fi-   iBy  friends  and  foes,  the  dying  left  to  die. 
The  victim,  while  he  groau'd  his  soul  away. 
Heard  the  gaunt  vulture  hurrying  to  his  prey, 
Then  strenffthless  felt  the  ravening  beak,  that  tore 
His  widen'd  wounds,  and  drank  the  living  gore. 


One  sole-surviving  remnant,  void  of  fear. 
Woods  m  their  front,  Euphrates  in  their  rear, 
Were  sworn  to  perish  at  a  glorious  cost. 
For  all  they  once  had  known,  and  loved,  and  lost; 
A  small,  a  brave,  a  melancholy  band. 
The  orphans,  and  the  childless  of  the  land. 
The  hordes  of  Cain,  by  giant-chieftains  led. 
Wide  o'er  the  north  their  vast  encampment  spread 
A  broad  and  sunny  champaign  stretch'd  between ; 
Westward  a  maze  of  v\aters  girt  the  scene ; 
There,  on  Euphrates,  in  its  ancient  course. 
Three  beauteous  rivers  roll'd  their  confluent  force, 
WTiose  streams  while  man  the  blissful  garden  trod, 
Adorn'd  the  earthly  paradise  of  God ; 
But  since  he  fell,  within  their  triple  bound. 
Fenced  a  long  region  of  forbidden  ground ; 
Meeting  at  once,  where  high  athwart  their  bed 
Repulsive  rocks  a  curving  barrier  spread. 
The  embattled  floods,  by  mutual  whirlpools  crost. 
In  hoary  foam  and  surging  mist  were  lost ; 
Thence,  like  an  Alpine  cataract  of  snow. 
White  down  the  precipice  they  dash'd  below  ; 
There,  in  tumultuous  billows  broken  wide. 
They  spent  their  rage,  and  yoked  their  fourfold  tide 
Tlirough  one  majestic  channel,  calm  and  free, 
The  sister-n  ^ers  sought  the  parent-sea. 

The  midnight  watch  was  ended  ;  down  the  west 
The  glowing  moon  declined  towards  her  rest ; 
Through  either  host  the  voice  of  war  was  dumb ; 
In  dreams  the  hero  won  the  fight  to  come ; 
No  sound  was  stirring,  save  the  breeze  that  bore 
The  distant  cataract's  everlasting  roar. 
When  from  the  tents  of  Cain,  a  Youth  withdrew; 
Secret  and  swift,  from  post  to  post  he  flew, 
And  pass'd  the  camp  of  Eden,  while  the  dawn 
Gleam'd  faintly  o'er  the  interjacent  lawn ; 
Skirting  the  forest,  cautiously  and  slow. 
He  fear'd  at  every  step  to  start  a  foe ; 
Oft  leap'd  the  hare  across  his  path,  up-sprung 
The  lark  beneath  his  feet,  and  soaring  sung ; 
What  time,  o'er  eastern  mountains  seen  afar. 
With  golden  splendor,  rose  the  morning  star. 
As  if  an  Angel-sentinel  of  night. 
From  earth  to  heaven,  had  wing'd  his  homeward 

flight. 
Glorious  at  first,  but  lessening  by  the  way. 
And  lost  insensibly  in  higher  day. 

From  track  of  man  and  herd  his  path  he  chose, 
WTiere  high  the  grass,  and  thick  the  copsewood  rose; 
Then  by  Euphrates'  banks  his  course  inclined. 
Where  the  grey  willows  tr'embled  to  the  wind ; 
With  toil  and  pain  their  humid  shade  he  clear'd. 
When  at  the  porch  of  heaven  the  sun  appear'd, 
Through  gorgeous  clouds  that  streak'd  the  orient  sky, 
And  kindled  into  glory  at  his  eye ; 
While  dark  amidst  the  dews  that  glitter'd  round, 
From  rock  and  tree,  long  shadows  traced  the  ground. 
Then  climb'd  the  fugitive  an  air}-  height. 
And  resting,  back  o'er  Eden  cast  his  sight. 

Far  on  the  left,  to  man  for  ever  closed. 
The  Mount  of  Paradise  m  clouds  reposed  : 
The  gradual  landscape  open'd  to  his  view; 
From  Nature's  face  the  veil  of  mist  withdrew, 
'  207 


24 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  left,  in  clear  and  purple  light  reveal'd, 

The  radiant  river,  and  the  tented  field ; 

The  black  pine-forest,  in  whose  girdle  lay 

The  patriot  phalanx,  hemm'd  in  close  array ; 

The  verdant  champaign  narrowing  to  the  north, 

Whence  from  their  dusky  quarters  sallied  forth 

The  proud  invaders,  early  roused  to  fight. 

Tribe  after  tribe  emerging  into  light ; 

Whose  shields  and  lances,  in  the  golden  beams, 

Flash'd  o'er  the  restless  scene  their  flickering  gleams, 

As  when  the  breakers  catch  the  morning  glow, 

And  ocean  rolls  in  living  fire  below  ; 

So  round  the  unbroken  border  of  the  wood, 

The  Giants  pour'd  their  army  like  a  flood, 

Eager  to  force  the  covert  of  their  foe, 

And  lay  the  last  defence  of  Eden  low. 

From  that  safe  eminence,  absorb'd  in  thought, 
Even  till  the  wind  the  shout  of  legions  brought, 
He  gazed, — his  heart  recoil'd — he  turn'd  his  head, 
And  o'er  the  southern  hills  his  journey  sped. 

WTio  was  the  fugitive  ? — in  infancy 
A  youthful  Mother's  only  hope  was  he, 
Whose  spouse  and  kindred,  on  a  festal  day. 
Precipitate  destruction  swept  away  ; 
Earth  trembled,  open'd,  and  entomb'd  them  all ; 
She  saw  them  sinking,  heard  their  voices  call 
Beneath  the  gulf, — and,  agonized,  aghast, 
On  the  wild  verge  of  eddyiiig  ruin  cast. 
Felt  in  one  pang,  at  that  convulsive  close, 
A  W^idow's  anguish,  and  a  Mother's  throes: 
A  Babe  sprang  forth,  an  inauspicious  birth, 
W^here  all  had  perish'd  that  she  loved  on  earth. 
Forlorn  and  helpless,  on  the  upriven  ground. 
The  parent,  with  her  offspring,  Enoch  found  : 
And  thence,  with  tender  care  and  timely  aid. 
Home  to  the  Patriarchs'  glen  his  charge  convey'd. 

Restored  to  life,  one  pledge  of  former  joy. 
One  source  of  bliss  to  come,  remain'd, — her  boy! 
Sweet  in  her  eye  the  cherish'd  infant  rose. 
At  once  the  seal  and  solace  of  her  w^oes  ; 
When  the  pale  widow  clasp'd  him  to  her  breast. 
Warm  gush'd  the  tears,  and  would  not  be  represt ; 
In  lonely  anguish,  when  the  truant  child 
Leap'd  o'er  the  threshold,  all  the  mother  smiled. 
In  him,  while  fond  imaeination  view'd 
Husband  and  parents,  brethren,  friends,  renew'd. 
Each  vanish'd  look,  each  well-remember'd  grace, 
That  pleased  in  them,  she  sought  m  Ja van's  face ; 
For  quick  his  eye  and  changeable  its  ray. 
As  the  sun  glancing  through  a  vernal  day ; 
And  like  the  lake,  by  storm  or  moonlight  seen, 
With  darkening  furrows  or  cerulean  mien. 
His  countenance,  the  mirror  of  his  breast, 
The  calm  or  trouble  of  his  soul  expressed. 

As  years  enlarged  his  form,  in  moody  hours, 
His  mind  betray'd  its  weakness  with  its  powers ; 
Alike  his  fairest  hopes  and  strangest  fears 
Were  nursed  in  silence,  or  divulged  with  tears ; 
The  fullness  of  his  heart  repress'd  his  tongue, 
Though  none  might  rival  JaAan  when  he  sung. 
He  loved,  in  lonely  indolence  reclined. 
To  watch  tlie  clouds,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 


But  from  the  north,  when  snow  and  tempest  came, 

His  nobler  spirit  mounted  into  flame ; 

V'ith  stern  delight  he  roara'd  the  howling  woods. 

Or  hung  in  ecstacy  o'er  headlong  floods. 

Meanwhile  excursive  fancy  long'd  to  view 

The  world,  which  yet  by  fame  alone  he  knew ; 

The  joys  of  freedom  were  his  daily  theme. 

Glory  the  secret  of  his  midnight  dream  ; 

That  dream  he  told  not ;    though  his  heart  \a  ould 

ache. 
His  home  was  precious  for  his  mother's  sake. 
With  her  the  lowly  paths  of  peace  he  ran. 
His  guardian  angel,  till  he  verged  to  man ; 
But  when  her  wear\'  eye  could  watch  no  more. 
When  to  the  grave  her  timeless  corse  he  bore, 
Not  Enoch's  counsels  could  his  steps  restrain ; 
He  fled,  and  sojourn'd  in  the  land  of  Cain. 
There  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  Jubal's  lyre, 
Instinctive  Genius  caught  the  ethereal  fire ; 
And  soon,  with  sweetly-modulating  skill. 
He  learn'd  to  wind  the  passions  at  his  will. 
To  rule  the  chords  with  such  mysterious  art, 
They  seem'd  the  hfe-slrings  of  the  hearer's  heart 
Then  Glory's  opening  field  he  proudlv  trod. 
Forsook  the  worship  and  the  ways  of  God, 
Round  the  vain  w  orld  pursued  the  phantom  Fame, 
And  cast  away  his  birthright  for  a  name. 

Yet  no  delight  the  Minstrel's  bosom  knew. 
None  save  the  tones  that  from  his  harp  he  drew. 
And  the  warm  visions  of  a  wayward  mind. 
Whose  transient  splendor  left  a  gloom  behind 
Frail  as  the  clouds  of  sun-set,  and  as  fair. 
Pageants  of  light,  resolving  into  air. 
The  world,  whose  charms  his  young  affections  stole 
He  found  too  mean  for  an  immortal  soul ; 
Wound  w  ith  his  hfe,  through  all  his  feelings  WTOugbt^ 
Death  and  eternity  posscss'd  his  thought ; 
Remorse  impell'd  him,  unremitting  care 
Hara.«s"d  his  path,  and  stung  him  to  despair. 
Still  was  the  secret  of  his  griefs  unknown. 
Amidst  the  universe  he  sigh'd  alone  ; 
The  fame  he  follow'd,  and  the  fame  he  found, 
Heal'd  not  his  heart's  immedicable  wound  ; 
Admired,  applauded,  crown'd,  where'er  he  roved 
The  Bard  was  homeless,  friendless,  unbeloved. 
All  else  that  breathed  below  the  circling  sky. 
Were  link'd  to  earth  by  some  endearing  tie ; 
He  only,  hke  the  ocean-weed  uptom. 
And  loose  along  the  world  of  waters  borne. 
Was  cast  companionless,  from  wave  to  wave, 
On  life's  rough  sea, — and  there  was  none  to  save. 

The  Giant  Kinsr,  who  led  the  hosts  of  Cain, 
Delighted  in  the  Minstrel  and  his  vein  ; 
Xo  hand,  no  voice,  like  Javan's,  could  control 
With  soothing  concords,  his  tempestuous  soul. 
With  him  the  wandering  Bard,  who  found  no  rest 
Through  ten  years'  exile,  sought  his  native  west ;       .  L 
There  from  the  camp  retiring,  he  pursued  '  '* 

His  journey  to  the  Patriarchs'  solitude. 
This  son  of  peace  no  martial  armor  wore, 
A  scrip  for  food,  a  staff!'  in  hand  he  bore  ; 
Flaxen  his  robe;  and  o'er  his  shoulder  hung,  j 

Broad  as  a  warrior's  shield,  his  harp  unstrung,  / 

A  shell  of  tortoise,  exquisitely  wrought 
With  hieroslyphics  of  embodied  thought ; 

208 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


^5 


Jubal  himself  enchased  the  polish'd  frame  ; 
And  Javan  won  it  in  the  strife  for  fame, 
Among  the  sons  of  Music,  when  their  Sire 
To  his  victorious  skill  adjudged  the  lyre. 

T  was  noon,  when  Javan  climb'd  the  bordering  hill, 
By  many  an  old  remembrance  hallow'd  still, 
Whence  he  beheld,  by  sloping  woods  inclosed, 
The  hamlet  where  his  Parent's  dust  reposed, 
His  home  of  happiness  in  early  years, 
And  still  the  home  of  all  his  hopes  and  fears, 
When  from  ambition  struggling  to  break  free, 
He  mused  on  joys  and  sorrows  yet  to  be. 
Awhile  he  stood,  with  rumination  pale, 
Casting  an  eye  of  sadness  o'er  the  vale, 
When,  suddenly  abrupt,  spontaneous  prayer 
Burst  from  his  lips  for  One  who  sojourn'd  there  : 
For  One,  whose  cottage,  far  appearing,  drew. 
Even  from  his  Mother's  grave,  his  transient  view ; 
One,  whose  unconscious  smiles  were  wont  to  dart  • 
Ineffable  emotion  through  his  heart; 

nameless  sympathy,  more  sweet,  more  dear 
Than  friendship,  solaced  him  when  she  was  near  ; 
And  well  he  guess'd,  while  yet  a  timorous  boy, 
rhat  Javan's  artless  songs  were  Zillah's  joy. 
But  when  ambition,  with  a  fiercer  flame 
Than  untold  love,  had'  fired  his  soul  for  fame. 
This  infant  passion,  cherish'd  yet  represt, 
Lived  in  his  pulse,  but  died  within  his  breast  ; 
i'or  oft,  in  distant  lands,  when  hope  beat  high, 

estvvard  he  turn'd  his  eager  glistening  eye, 
\.nd  gazed  in  spirit  on  her  absent  form, 
air  as  the  moon  emerging  through  the  storm, 
rill  sudden,  strange,  bewildering  horrors  cross'd 
thought, — and  every  glimpse  of  joy  was  lost. 
Cven  then,  when  melancholy  numb'd  his  brain, 
Vnd  life  itself  stood  still  in  every  vein, 
Vhile  his  cold,  quivering  lips  sent  vows  above, 

Never  to  curse  her  with  his  bitter  love ! 
lis  heart,  espoused  with  hers,  in  secret  sware 
'o  hold  its  truth  unshaken  by  despair  : 
The  vows  dispersed  that  from  those  lips  were  borne, 
Jut  never,  never,  was  that  heart  forsworn  ; 
Throughout  the  world,  the  charm  of  Zillah's  name 
lepell'd  the  touch  of  every  meaner  flame, 
ealous  and  watchful  of  the  Sex's  wiles, 
le  trembled  at  the  light  of  Woman's  smiles ! 
So  turns  the  mariner's  mistrusting  eye 
rom  proud  Orion  bending  through  the  sky, 
beauteous  and  terrible,  who  shines  afar, 
t  once  the  brightest  and  most  baneful  star.' 

Where  Javan  from  that  eastern  hill  survey'd 
Tie  circling  forest  and  embosom'd  glade, 
larth  wore  one  summer  robe  of  living  green, 

heaven's  blue  arch  the  sun  alone  was  seen ; 
Ireation  slumber'd  in  the  cloudless  light, 
Lnd  noon  was  silent  as  the  depth  of  night. 
)h  what  a  throng  of  rushing  thoughts  oppress'd, 
tt  that  vast  solitude,  his  anxious  breast! 
^— To  wither  in  the  blossom  of  renown, 
Lnd  unrecorded  to  the  dust  go  down. 


Or  for  a  name  on  earth,  to  quit  the  prize 

Of  immortality  beyond  the  skies, 

Perplex 'd  his  wavering  choice  : — when  Conscience 

fail'd, 
Love  rose  against  the  World,  and  Love  prevail'd ; 
Passion,  in  aid  of  Virtue,  conquer'd  Pride, 
And  Woman  won  the  heart  to  Heaven  denied. 


CANTO  IL 


Javan,  descending  through  the  Forest,  arrives  at  the 
Place  where  he  had  formerly  parted  with  Zillah, 
when  he  withdrew  irom  the  Patriarchs'  Glen. 
There  he  again  discovers  her  in  a  Bower  formed 
on  the  Spot.  Their  strange  Interview,  and  abrupt 
Separation. 


I 


1  Cosi  gV  infausti  rai 
Spande  Oribne,  e  i  naviganti  attrista, 
Oribn,  chie  tra  gli  astri  in  ciel  risplende 
Vie  piu  d'  ogni  altro,  e  piii  d'  ogni  altro  offende. 

Filicaja, 
07  «  O 


Steep  the  descent,  and  wearisome  the  way. 
The  twisted  boughs  forbade  the  light  of  day; 
No  breath  from  heaven  refresh'd  the  sultry  gloom, 
The  arching  forest  seem'd  one  pillar'd  tomb, 
Upright  and  tall  the  trees  of  ages  grow. 
While  all  is  loneliness  and  waste  below ; 
There,  as  the  massy  foliage,  far  aloof 
Display'd  a  dark  impenetrable  roof, 
So,  gnarl'd  and  rigid,  claspt  and  interwound, 
An  uncouth  maze  of  roots  emboss'd  the  ground : 
Midway  beneath,  the  sylvan  wild  assumed 
A  milder  aspect,  shrubs  and  flowerets  bloom'd ; 
Openings  of  sky,  and  little  plots  of  green. 
And  showers  of  sun-beams  through  the  leaves  were 
seen. 

Awhile  the  traveller  halted  at  the  place. 
Where  last  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Zillah's  face, 
One  lovely  eve,  when  in  that  calm  retreat 
They  met,  as  they  were  often  wont  to  meet. 
And  parted,  not  as  they  were  wont  to  part, 
With  gay  regret,  but  heaviness  of  heart ; 
Though  Javan  named  for  his  return  the  night, 
When  the  new  moon  had  roll'd  to  full-orb'd  light. 
She  stood,  and  gazed  through  tears  that  forced  their 

way, 
Oft  as  from  steep  to  steep,  with  fond  delay, 
Lessening  at  every  view,  he  turn'd  his  head, 
Hail'd  her  with  weaker  voice,  then  forward  sped. 
From  that  sad  hour,  she  saw  his  face  no  more 
In  Eden's  woods,  or  on  Euphrates'  shore : 
Moons  wax'd  and  waned ;  to  ?ier  no  hope  appear'd, 
Who  much  his  death,  but  more  his  falsehood  fear'd. 

Noiv,  while  he  paused,  the  lapse  of  years  forgot, 
Remembrance  eyed  her  lingering  near  the  spot. 
Onward  he  hastened ;  all  his  bosom  burn'd, 
As  if  that  eve  of  parting  were  return'd ; 
And  she,  with  silent  tenderness  of  woe, 
Clung  to  his  heart,  and  would  not  let  him  go. 
Sweet  was  the  scene !  apart  the  cedars  stood, 
A  sunny  islet  open'd  in  the  wood ; 
With  vernal  tints  the  wild-brier  thicket  glows. 
For  here  the  desert  flourish'd  as  the  rose ; 
From  sapling  trees,  with  lucid  foliage  crown 'd. 
Gay  lights  and  shadows  twinkled  on  the  ground  ; 
Up  the  tall  stems  luxuriant  creepers  run 
To  hang  their  silver  blossoms  in  the  sun ; 
Deep  velvet  verdure  clad  the  turf  beneath, 
\Vhere  trodden  flowers  their  richest  odors  breathe 

OAQ 


20 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O'er  all  the  bees,  with  murmuring  music,  flew 
From  bell  to  bell,  to  sip  the  treasured  dew ; 
While  insect  myriads,  in  the  solar  gleams. 
Glanced  to  and  fro,  like  intermingling  beams ; 
So  fresh,  so  pure,  the  woods,  the  sky,  the  air. 
It  seem'd  a  place  where  angels  might  repair. 
And  tune  their  harps  beneath  those  tranquil  shades, 
To  morning  songs,  or  moonlight  serenades. 

He  paused  again,  with  memory's  dream  entranced ; 
Again  his  foot  unconsciously  advanced. 
For  now  the  laurel-thicket  caught  his  view. 
Where  he  and  Zillah  wept  their  last  adieu. 
Some  curioiLS  hand,  since  that  bereaving  hour, 
Had  twined  the  copse  into  a  covert  bower. 
With  many  a  light  and  fragrant  shrub  between, 
Flowering  aloft  amidst  perennial  green. 
As  Javan  scarch'd  this  blossom-woven  shade, 
He  spied  the  semblance  of  a  sleeping  Maid  ; 
'T  is  she  ;  't  is  Zillah,  in  her  leafy  shrine  ; 
O'erwatched  in  slumber  by  a  power  divine, 
In  cool  retirement  from  the  heat  of  day, 
Alone,  unfearing,  on  the  moss  she  lay. 
Fair  as  the  rainbow  shines  through  darkening  showers 
Pure  as  a  wreath  of  snow  on  April  flowers. 

O  youth  !  in  later  times,  whose  gentle  ear 
This  tale  of  ancient  constancy  shall  hear; 
If  thou  hast  known  the  sweetness  and  the  pain, 
To  love  with  secret  hope,  yet  love  in  vain ; 
If  months  and  years  in  pining  silence  worn. 
Till  doubt  and  fear  might  be  no  longer  Ixjme, 
In  evening  shades  thy  faltering  tongue  confess'J 
The  last  dear  wish  that  trembled  in  thy  breast, 
While  at  each  pause  the  streamlet  purl'd  along 
And  rival  woodlands  echoed  song  for  song ; 
Recall  the  Maiden's  look — the  eye,  the  cheek, 
The  blush  that  spoke  what  language  could  not  speak; 
Recall  her  look,  when  at  the  altar's  side 
She  seal'd  her  promise,  and  became  thy  bride. 
Such  were  to  Javan,  Zillah's  form  and  face, 
The  flower  of  meekncs.?  on  a  stem  of  grace  ; 
O,  she  was  all  that  Youth  of  Beauty  deems, 
All  that  to  Love  the  loveliest  object  seems. 

ISIoments  there  are,  that,  in  their  sudden  flight. 
Bring  the  slow  mysteries  of  years  to  light ; 
Javan,  in  one  transporting  instant,  knew. 
That  all  he  wish'd,  and  all  he  fear'd,  was  true ; 
For  while  the  harlot- world  his  soul  possess'd. 
Love  seem'd  a  crime  in  his  apostate  breast ; 
•  How  could  he  tempt  her  innocence  to  share 
His  poor  ambition,  and  his  fix'd  despair !  ' 
But  now  the  phantoms  of  a  wandering  brain. 
And  wounded  spirit,  cross'd  his  thoughts  in  vain : 
Past  sins  and  follies,  cares  and  woes  forgot, 
Peace,  virtue,  Zillah,  seem'd  his  present  lot  ; 
Where'er  he  look'd,  around  him  or  above. 
All  was  the  pledge  of  Truth,  the  work  of  Love, 
At  whose  transforming  hand,  where  last  they  stood, 
Had  sprimg  that  lone  memorial  in  the  wood. 

Thus  on  the  slumbering  maid  while  Javan  gazed 
With  quicker  swell  her  hidden  bosom  raised 
The  shadowy  tresses,  that  profusely  shed 
Their  golden  WTeaths  from  her  reclining  head ; 


A  deeper  crimson  mantled  o'er  her  cheek, 
Her  close  lip  quiver'd,  as  in  act  to  speak. 
While  broken  sot)s,  and  tremors  of  unrest. 
The  inward  trouble  of  a  dream  express'd : 
At  length,  amidst  imperfect  murmurs,  fell 
The  name  of  "  Javan  ! "  and  a  low  "  farewell ! " 
Tranquil  again,  her  cheek  resumed  its  hue. 
And  soft  as  infancy  her  breath  she  drew\ 

When  Javan's  ear  those  startling  accents  thrill'd 
Wonder  and  ecstacy  his  bosom  fill'd; 
But  quick  compunction  humbler  feelings  wrought, 
He  blush'd  to  be  a  spy  on  Zillah's  thought  : 
He  turn'd  aside  ;  within  the  neighboring  brake. 
Resolved  to  tarry  till  the  nymph  awake. 
There,  as  in  luxury  of  thought  reclined, 
A  calm  of  tenderness  composed  his  mind  ; 
His  stringless  harp  upon  the  turf  was  thrown. 
And  on  a  pipe  of  most  mellifluous  tone, 
Framed  by  himself  the  musing  Minstrel  play'd, 
To  charm  the  slumberer,  cloister'd  in  the  shade. 
Jubal  had  taught  the  lyres  responsive  string, 
Beneath  the  rapture  of  his  touch  to  sing  ; 
And  bade  the  trumpet  wake,  with  bolder  breath, 
The  joy  of  battle  in  the  field  of  death ; 
Bat  Javan  first,  whom  pure  affection  fired. 
With  Love's  clear  eloquence  the  flute  inspired  ; 
At  once  obedient  to  the  lip  and  hand, 
It  utter'd  every  feeling  at  command. 
Light  o'er  the  stops  liis  airy  fingers  flew, 
A  spirit  spoke  in  every  tone  they  drew ; 
'T  was  now  the  skylark  on  the  wings  of  mom, 
JVow  the  night-warbler  leaning  on  her  thorn ; 
Anon  through  every  pulse  the  music  stole. 
And  held  sublime  communion  Avith  the  soul. 
Wrung  from  the  coyest  breast  the  unprison'd  sigh, 
And  kindled  rapture  in  the  coldest  eye. 

Thus  on  his  dulcet  pipe  while  Javan  play'd, 
W^ithin  her  bower  awoke  the  conscious  maid ; 
She,  in  her  dream,  by  varying  fancies  crost. 
Had  hail'd  her  wanderer  found,  and  mourn'd  him  losii 
In  one  wild  vision,  'm'.dst  a  land  unknown 
By  a  dark  river,  as  she  sat  alone, 
Javan  beyond  the  stream  dejected  stood  ; 
He  spied  her  soon,  and  leapt  into  the  flood  ; 
The  thwarting  current  urged  him  down  its  course^ 
But  Love  repcird  it  with  victorious  force  ; 
She  ran  to  help  him  landing,  where  at  length 
He  struggled  up  the  bank  with  failing  streng'h; 
She  caught  his  hand ; — when,  downward  from  the  da 
A  W'ater-monster  dragg'd  the  youth  away ; 
She  follow'd  headlong,  but  her  garments  tore 
Her  form,  light  floating,  till  she  saw  no  more : 
For  suddenly  the  dream's  delusion  changed. 
And  through  a  blooming  wilderness  she  ranged ; 
Alone  she  seem'd,  but  not  alone  she  walk'd — 
Javan,  invisible,  beside  her  talk'd. 
He  told  how  he  had  joumey'd  many  a  year 
With  changing  seasons  in  their  suift  career. 
Danced  with  the  breezes  in  the  bowers  of  morn. 
Slept  in  the  valley  where  new^  moons  are  bom, 
Rode  with  the  planets,  on  their  golden  cars. 
Round  the  blue  world  inhabited  by  stars. 
And,  bathing  in  the  sun's  crystalline  streams, 
Became  ethereal  spirit  in  the  beams, 

210 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


27 


Whence  were  his  lineaments,  from  mortal  sight, 
Absorb'd  in  pure  transparency  of  light; 
But  now,  his  pilgrimage  of  glory  past, 
In  Eden's  vale  he  sought  repose  at  last 
— The  voice  was  mystery  to  Zillah's  ear, 
X'lt  speech,  nor  song,  yet  full,  melodious,  clear ; 
Am  sounds  of  winds  or  waters,  birds  or  bees, 
Were  e'er  so  exquisitely  tuned  to  please. 
Then  while  she  sought  him  with  desiring  eyes. 
The  airy  Javan  darted  from  disguise — 
Full  on  her  view  a  stranger's  visage  broke ; 
She  fled,  she  fell,  he  caught  her, — she  awoke. 

Awoke  from  sleep, — but  in  her  solitude 
Found  the  ene-hantment  of  her  dream  renew'd ; 
Tiiat  living  voice,  so  full,  melodious,  clear, 
That  voice  of  mystery  warbled  in  her  ear. 
Yet  words  no  longer  wing  tlie  trembling  notes, 
Unearthly,  inexpressive  music  floats, 
In  liquid  tones  so  voluble  and  wild, 
Her  senses  seem  by  slumber  still  beguiled  : 
Alarm'd,  she  started  from  her  lonely  den, 
Bat,  blushing,  instantly  retired  again  ; 
The  viewless  phantom  came  in  sound  so  near, 
i  The  stranger  of  her  dream  might  next  appear. 
1  Javan,  conceal'd  behind  the  verdant  brake, 
JFelt  his  lip  fail,  and  strength  his  hand  foi-sake ; 
iThen  dropt  his  flute,  and  while  he  lay  at  rest 
I  Heard  every  pulse  that  travell'd  through  his  breast. 
IZillah.  who  deem'd  the  strange  illusion  fled, 
INow  from  the  laurel-arbor  show'd  her  head, 
jHer  eve  quick-glancing  round,  as  if  in  thought 
iRecoiliuff  from  the  object^hat  she  sought: 
Bv  slow  degrees,  to  Javan  in  the  shade, 
The  emerging  nymph  her  perfect  shape  display'd. 
Time  had  but  touch'd  her  form  to  finer  grace, 
;Years  had  but  shed  their  favors  on  her  face, 
jWhile  secret  Love,  and  unrewarded  Truth, 
'Like  cold  clear  dew^  upon  the  rose  of  youth, 
iGave  to  the  sprinjjing  flower  a  chasten'd  bloom. 
And  shut  from  rifling  winds  its  coy  perfume. 

^Vords  cannot  paint  the  wonder  of  her  look. 
When  once  again  his  pipe  the  Minstrel  took, 
;And  soft  in  under-tones  began  to  play, 
jLike  the  caged  woodlark's  low-lamenting  lay : 
'Then  loud  and  shrill,  by  stronger  breath  impell'd, 
!To  higher  strains  the  undaunted  music  swell'd, 
|Till  new-born  echoes  through  the  forest  rang, 
lAnd  birds,  at  noon,  in  broken  slumbers  sang. 
'Bewilderinc:  transport,  infantine  surprise, 
iPhrobb'd  in  her  bosom,  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 
;3'er  every  feature  every  feeling  shone. 
Her  color  changed  as  Javan  changed  his  tone  ; 
AVhile  she,  between  the  bower  and  brake  entranced, 
lAlternatelv  retreated  or  advanced  ; 
Sometimes  the  lessening  cadence  seem'd  to  fly, 
'Then  the  full  melody  came  rolling  nigh  ; 
iShe  shrunk,  or  follow'd  still,  with  eye  and  feet, 
jA-fraid  to  lose  it,  more  afraid  to  meet ; 
foT  yet  through  Eden's  land,  by  fame  alone, 
.  I^ubal's  harmonious  minstrelsy  was  known, 
rhough  nobler  songs  than  cheer'd  the  Pati-iarchs'  glen 
iYever  resounded  from  the  lips  of  men. 

Silence,  at  length,  the  listening  Maiden  broke  ; 
The  heart  of  Javan  check'd  him  wliile  she  spoke ; 


Though  sweeter  than  his  pipe  her  accents  stole, 
He  durst  not  learn  the  tumult  of  her  soul, 
But,  closely  cowering  in  his  ambuscade, 
With  sprightUer  breath  and  nimbler  flnger  play'd 
— "  'T  is  not  the  nightingale  that  sang  so  well,' 
When  Javan  loft  me  near  this  lonely  cell ; 
'T  is  not  indeed  the  nightingale  : — her  voice 
Could  never  since  that  hour  my  soul  rejoice : 
Some  bird  from  Paradise  hath  lost  her  way. 
And  carols  here  a  long-forbidden  lav ; 
For  ne'er  since  Eve's  transgression,  mortal  ear 
Was  privileged  such  heavenly  sounds  to  hear; 
Perhaps  an  Angel,  while  he  rests  his  wings, 
On  earth  alighting,  here  his  descant  sings  ; 
Methinks  those  tones,  so  full  of  joy  and  love, 
Must  be  the  language  of  the  world  above ! 
Within  this  brake  he  rests:"  With  curious  ken. 
As  if  she  fear'd  to  stir  a  lion'-s  den, 
Breathless,  on  tiptoe,  round  the  cop^e  she  crept; 
Her  heart  beat  quicker,  louder,  as  she  stept, 
Till  Javan  rose,  and  fix'd  on  her  his  eyes. 
In  dumb  embarrassment,  and  feign'd  surprise. 
Upright  she  started,  at  the  sudden  view, 
Back  from  her  brow  the  scatter'd  ringlets  flew; 
Paleness  a  moment  overspread  her  face  ; 
But  fear  to  frank  astonishment  gave  place. 
And  with  the  virgin-blush  of  innocence. 
She    ask'd, — "Who    art    thou,  Stranger,   and   from 
W'hence  ? " 

With  mild  demeanor,  and  with  downcast  eye, 
Javan,  advancing,  humbly  made  reply: 
— "  A  Wretch,  escaping  from  the  tribes  of  men. 
Seeks  an  asylum  in  the  Patriarchs'  glen ; 
As  through  the  forest's  breathless  gloom  I  stray'd, 
L'p-sprang  the  breeze  in  this  delicious  shade ; 
Then,  while  I  sate  beneath  the  rustling  tree, 
I  waked  this  pipe  to  wildest  minstrelsy. 
Child  of  my  fancy,  framed  \\ith  Jubal's  art. 
To  breathe  at  will  the  fullness  of  my  heart: 
Fairest  of  Women !  if  the  clamor  rude 
Hath  scared  the  quiet  of  thy  solitude. 
Forgive  the  innocent  oflfence,  and  tell 
How  far  beyond  these  woods  the  righteous  dwell." — 

Though  changed  his  voice,  his  look  and  stature 
changed. 
In  air  and  garb,  in  all  but  love  estranged 
Still  in  the  youthful  exile  Zillah  sought 
A  dear  lost  friend,  for  ever  near  her  thought ! 
Yet  answer'd  coldly, — jealous  and  afraid 
Her  heart  might  be  mistaken,  or  be  tray 'd. 
— "Not  far  from  hence  the  faithful  race  reside ; 
Pilcrim  !  to  whom  shall  I  thy  footsteps  guide  ? 
Alike  to  all,  if  thou  an  alien  be, 
My  father's  home  invites  thee :  follow  me." 

She  spoke  with  such  a  thought-divining  look,   • 
Color  his  lip,  and  power  his  tongue  forsook ; 
At  length,  in  hesitating  lone,  and  low, 
— "  Enoch,"  said  he,  "  the  friend  of  God,  I  know. 
To  him  I  bear  a  message  full  of  fear ; 
I  may  not  rest  till  he  vouchsafe  to  hear." 

He  paused :  his  cheek  with  red  confusion  bum'd 
Kindness  through  her  relentimr  breast  retum'd  : 
— "  Behold  the  path,"  she  cried,  and  led  the  way; 
Ere  long  the  vale  unbosom'd  to  the  day  • 

211 


28 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— "  Yonder,  where  two  embracing  oaks  are  seen, 
Arch'd  o'er  a  cottage-roof,  that  peei)s  between. 
Dwells  Enoch;  Stranger!  peace  attend  thee  there, 
My  father's  sheep  demand  his  daughter's  care." 

Javan  was  so  rebuked  beneath  her  eye. 
She  vanish'd  ere  he  falter'd  a  reply, 
And  sped,  w'hile  he  in  cold  amazement  stood. 
Along  the  winding  border  of  the  wood  ; 
Now  lost,  now  re-appearing,  as  the  glade 
Shone  to  the  sun,  or  darken'd  in  the  shade. 
He  saw,  but  might  not  follow,  where  her  flock 
Were  wont  to  rest  at  noon,  beneath  a  rock. 
He  knew  the  willowy  champaign,  and  the  stream, 
Of  many  an  early  lay  the  simple  theme. 
Chanted  in  Boyhood's  unsuspecting  hours. 
When  Zillah  join'd  the  song,  or  praised  his  powers. 
Thither  he  watch'd  her,  while  her  course  she  bore. 
Nor  ceased  to  gaze,  when  she  was  seen  no  more. 


CANTO  III. 


Javan's  Soliloquy  on  Zillah's  Desertion  of  him. — He 
reaches  the  Ruins  of  his  Mother's  Cottage. — 
Thence  he  proceeds  to  Enoch's  Dwelling. — His 
Reception  there. — Enoch  and  Javan  proceed  to- 
gether towards  the  Place  of  Sacrifice. — Description 
of  the  Patriarchs'  Glen  ; — Occasion  of  the  Family 
of  Seth  retiring  thither  at  first. 


*'  Am  I  so  changed  by  suffering,  so  forgot, 
That  Love  disowiis  me,  Zillah  knows  me  not  ? 
Ah  !  no  ;  she  shrinks  from  my  disastrous  fate, 
She  dare  not  love  me,  and  she  cannot  hate : 
'T  is  just ;  I  merit  this  : — When  Nature's  womb 
Ingulf 'd  my  kindred  in  one  common  tomb, 
Why  was  I  spared  ? — A  reprobate  by  birth. 
To  heaven  rebellious,  unallied  on  earth, 
Whither,  O  whither  shall  the  outcast  flee  ? 
There  is  no  home,  no  peace,  no  hope  for  me. 
I  hate  the  worldling's  vanity  and  noise, 
I  have  no  fellow-feeling  in  his  joys  : 
The  saint's  serener  bliss  I  cannot  share, 
My  Soul,  alas !  hath  no  communion  there. 
This  is  the  portion  of  my  cup  below, 
Silent,  unmingled,  solitary  woe  ; 
To  bear  from  clime  to  clime  the  curse  of  Cain, 
Sin  with  remorse,  yet  find  repentance  vain ; 
And  cling,  in  blank  despair,  from  breath  to  breath. 
To  nought  in  life,  except  the  fear  of  Death." — 

While  Javan  gave  his  bitter  passion  vent, 
And  w'ander'd  on,  unheeding  where  he  went. 
His  feet,  instinctive,  led  him  to  the  spot        * 
Where  rose  the  ruins  of  his  Childhood's  cot  ; 
Here,  as  he  halted  in  abrupt  surprise, 
His  Mother  seem'd  to  vanish  from  his  eyes. 
As  if  her  gentle  form,  unmark'd  before. 
Had  stood  to  greet  him  at  the  wonted  door ; 
Yet  did  the  pale  retiring  Spirit  dart 
A  look  of  tenderness  that  broke  his  heart : 
T  was  but  a  thought,  arrested  on  its  flight, 
And  bodied  forth  with  visionary  light. 


But  chill  the  life-blood  ran  through  every  vein, 

The  fire  of  frenzy  fiided  from  his  brain. 

He  cast  himself  in  terror  on  the  ground  : 

— Slowly  recovering  strength,  he  gazed  around. 

In  wistful  silence,  eyed  those  walls  decay'd, 

Between  whose  chinks  the  lively  lizard  play'd , 

The  moss-clad  timbers,  loose  and  lapsed  awry. 

Threatening  ere  long  in  wider  wreck  to  lie ; 

The  fractured   roof,  through   .vhich  the  smi-beara 

shone. 
With  rank  unflowering  verdure  overgrown; 
The  prostrate  fragments  of  the  wicker-door. 
And  reptile  traces  on  the  damp  green  floor. 
This  mournful  spectacle  while  Javan  view'd. 
Life's  earliest  scenes  and  trials  were  renew'd  ; 
O'er  his  dark  mind,  the  light  of  years  gone  by, 
Gleam'd,  like  the  meteors  of  a  northern  sky. 
He  moved  his  lips,  but  strove  in  vain  to  speak, 
A  few  slow  tears  stray'd  down  his  cold  wan  cheek 
Till  from  his  breast  a  sigh  convulsive  sprung, 
And  "  O  my  Mother ! "  trembled  from  his  tongue. 
That  name,  though  but  a  murmur,  that  dear  name 
Touch'd  every  kind  affection  into  flame  ; 
Despondency  assumed  a  milder  form, 
A  ray  of  comfort  darted  through  the  storm  ; 
"  O  God  !  be  merciful  to  me  ! " — He  said. 
Arose,  and  straight  to  Enoch's  dwelling  sped. 

Enoch,  who  sate,  to  taste  the  freshening  breeze^ 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  cottage-trees. 
Beheld  the  youth  approaching ;  and  his  eye, 
Instructed  by  the  light  of  prophecy, 
Knew  from  afar,  beneath  the  stranger's  air, 
The  orphan-object  of  his  tenderest  care  ; 
Forth,  with  a  father's  joy,  the  holy  man 
To  meet  the  poor  returning  pilgrim  ran, 
Fell  on  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  him,  wept,  and  cried, 

My  son  I  my  son  I " — but  Javan  shrunk  aside  ; 
The  Patriarch  raised,  embraced  him,  oft  withdrev 
His  head  to  gaze,  then  wept  and  clasp'd  anew. 
The  mourner  bow'd  with  agony  of  shame, 
Clung  round  his  knees,  and  call'd  upon  liis  name- 
— "  Father  !  behold  a  supplicant  in  me, 
A  sinner  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  and  thee ; 
Yet  for  thy  former  love,  may  Javan  live : 
O,  for  the  mother's  sake,  the  son  forgive ! — 
The  meanest  ofTice,  and  the  lowest  seat. 
In  Enoch's  house  be  mine,  at  Enoch's  feet." 

"  Come  to  my  home,  my  bosom  and  my  rest, 
Not  as  a  stranger,  and  wayfaring  guest : 
My  bread  of  peace,  my  cup  of  blessings  share. 
Child  of  my  fhith !  and  answer  to  my  prayer ! 
O,  I  have  wept  through  many  a  night  for  thee. 
And  watch'd  through  many  a  day  this  day  to  see 
Crown'd  is  the  hope  of  my  desiring  heart ; 
I  am  resign'd,  and  ready  to  depart: 
With  joy  I  hail  my  course  of  nature  run. 
Since  I  have  seen  thy  face,  my  son  I  my  son ! " 

So  saying,  Enoch  led  to  his  abode 
The  trembling  penitent,  along  the  road  I 

That  through  the  garden's  gay  inclosure  wound  :'' 
'Midst  fruits  and  flowers  the  Patriarch's  spouse  i  y 

found. 
Plucking  the  purple  clusters  from  the  vine, 
To  crown  the  cup  of  unferraented  wine. 
'  212 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


29 


She  came  to  meet  them ; — but  in  strange  surmise 
Stopt,  and  on  Javan  fix'd  her  earnest  eyes ; 
H«  kneel'd  to  greet  her  hand  with  wonted  grace — 
Ah  !  then  she  knew  him ! — as  he  bovv'd  his  face, 
His  mother's  features  in  a  ghmpse  she  caught, 
And  the  son's  image  rush'd  upon  her  thought ; 
Pale  she  recoil'd  with  momentary  fright, 
As  if  a  spirit  had  ris'n  before  her  sight ; 

i  Returning,  with  a  heart  too  full  to  speak. 
She  pour'd  a  Hood  of  tears  upon  his  cheek. 
Then  laugh'd  for  gladness, — but  her  laugh  was  wild ; 

j  — "  Where  hast  thou  been,  my  own,  my  orphan  child  ? 

I  Child  of  my  soul  I  bequeath'd  in  death  to  me, 

!  By  her  who  had  no  other  wealth  than  thee  !  " 
She  cried,  and  with  a  Mother's  love  caress'd 

I  The  Youth,  who  wept  in  silence  on  her  breast. 


This  hasty  tumult  of  affection  o'er, 
They  pass'd  within  the  hospitable  door; 
There  on  a  grassy  couch,  with  joy  o'ercome, 
Pensive  with  awe,  with  veneration  dumb, 
Javan  reclined,  while  kneeling  at  his  seat. 
The  humble  Patriarch  vvash'd  the  traveller's  feet. 
Quickly  the  Spouse  her  plenteous  table  spread 
With  homely  viands,  milk  and  fruits  and  bread. 
Ere  long  the  guest,  grown  innocently  bold, 
With  simple  eloquence  his  story  told  ; 
His  sins,  his  follies,  frankly  were  reveal'd. 
And  nothing  but  his  nameless  love  conceal'd. 
— "While  thus,"  he  cried,  "  I  proved  the  world  a 

snare, 
Pleasure  a  serpent.  Fame  a  cloud  in  air ; 
While  with  the  sons  of  men  my  footsteps  trod, 
My  home,  my  heart,  was  with  the  Sons  of  God." 

"  Went  not  my  spirit  with  thee,"  Enoch  said, 
"  When  from  the  Mother's  grave  the  Orphan  fled  ? 
Others  believed  thee  slain  by  beasts  of  blood. 
Or  self  devoted  to  the  strangling  flood, 
(Too  plainly  in  thy  grief-bewilder'd  mien. 
By  every  eye,  a  breaking  heart  was  seen :) 
I  raourn'd  in  secret  thine  apostasy. 
Nor  ceased  to  intercede  with  Heaven  for  thee. 
Strong  was  my  faith :  in  dreams  or  waking  thought, 
Oft  as  thine  image  o'er  my  mind  was  brought, 
I  deem'd  thee  living  by  this  conscious  sign. 
The  deep  communion  of  my  soul  with  thine. 
This  day  a  voice,  that  thrill'd  my  breast  with  fear 
(Melhought  't  was  Adam's),  whisper'd  in  mine  ear, 
— '  Enoch !  ere  thrice  the  moining  meet  the  sun. 
Thy  joy  shall  be  fulfill'd,  thy  rest  begun.' 
r  While  yet  those  tones  were  murmuring  in  air, 
I  turn'd  to  look, — but  saw  no  speaker  there  : 
Thought  I  not  then  of  thee,  my  long-lost  joy  ? 
Leapt  not  my  heart  abroad  to  meet  my  boy  ? 
Yes !  and  while  still  I  sate  beneath  the  tree, 
Revolving  what  the  signal  meant  to  me, 
1  spied  thee  coming,  and  with  eager  feet 
Ran,  the  returning  fugitive  to  ^reet  : 
Nor  less  the  welcome  art  thou,  since  I  know 
By  this  high  warning,  that  from  earth  I  go ; 
My  days  are  number'd  ;  peace  on  thine  attend ! 
The  trial  comes, — be  faithful  to  the  end." 


"  0  live  the  years  of  Adam ! "  cried  the  youth : 
'  Yet  seem  thy  words  to  breathe  prophetic  truth  : 


Sire  I  while  I  roam'd  the  world,  a  transient  guest. 

From  sun-rise  to  the  ocean  of  the  west, 

I  found  that  sin,  where'er  the  foot  of  man 

Nature's  primeval  wilderness  o'erran. 

Had  track'd  his  steps,  and  through  advancing  Timn 

Urged  the  deluded  race  from  crime  to  crime, 

Till  wrath  and  strife,  in  fratricidal  war, 

Gather'd  the  force  of  nations  from  afar. 

To  deal  and  suffer  Death's  unheeded  blow, 

As  if  the  curse  on  Adam  were  too  slow: 

Even  now  an  host,  like  locusts  on  their  way, 

That  desolate  the  earth,  and  dim  the  day. 

Led  by  a  Giant  king,  whose  arm  hath  broke 

Remotest  realms  to  wear  his  iron  yoke, 

Hover  o'er  Eden,  resolute  to  close 

His  final  triumph  o'er  his  latest  foes ; 

A  feeble  band,  that  in  their  covert  lie. 

Like  cowering  doves  beneath  the  falcon's  eye. 

That  easy  and  ignoble  conquest  won, 

There  yet  remains  one  fouler  deed  undone. 

Oft  have  I  heard  the  tyrant  in  his  ire. 

Devote  this  glen  to  massacre  and  fire. 

And  swear  to  root,  from  Earth's  dishonor'd  face. 

The  last  least  relic  of  the  faithful  race ; 

Thenceforth  he  hopes,  on  God's  terrestrial  throne, 

To  rule  the  nether  universe  alone. 

W^herefore,  O  Sire !  when  evening  shuts  the  sky. 

Fly  with  thy  kindred,  from  destruction  fly  ; 

Far  to  the  south,  unpeopled  wilds  of  wood 

Skirt  the  dark  borders  of  Euphrates'  flood  ; 

There  shall  the  Patriarchs  find  secure  repose. 

Till  Eden  rest,  forsaken  of  her  foes." 

At  Javan's  speech  the  Matron's  cheek  grew-  pale 
Her  courage,  not  her  faith,  began  to  fail : 
Eve's  youngest  daughter  she  ;  the  silent  tear 
Witness'd  her  patience,  but  betray'd  her  fear. 
Then  answer'd  Enoch,  with  a  smile  serene, 
That  shed  celestial  beaut\'  o'er  his  mien ; 
"  Here  is  mine  earthly  habitation  :  here 
I  wait  till  my  Redeemer  shall  appear : 
Death  and  the  face  of  man  I  dare  not  shun, 
God  is  my  refuge,  and  His  will  be  done." 

The  Matron  check'd  her  uncomplaining  sigh. 
And  wiped  the  drop  that  trembled  in  her  eye. 
Javan  with  shame  and  self-abasement  blush'd. 
But  every  care  at  Enoch's  smile  was  hush'd : 
He  felt  the  power  of  truth  ;  his  heart  o'erflow'd, 
And  in  his  look  sublime  devotion  glow'd. 
Westward  the  Patriarch  turn'd  his  tranquil  face ; 
"  The  Sun,"  said  he,  "  hath  well-nigh  run  his  racc! 
I  to  the  yearly  sacritice  repair. 
Our  Brethren  meet  me  at  the  place  of  prayer.' 

"  I  follow  :  O,  my  father !  I  am  thine  ; 
Thy  God,  thy  people,  and  thine  altar  mine !" 
Exclaim'd  the  youth,  on  highest  thoughts  intent. 
And  forth  with  Enoch  through  the  valley  went. 

Deep  was  that  valley,  girt  with  rock  and  wood ; 
In  rural  groups  the  scatter'd  hamlet  sto'td; 
Tents,  arbors,  cottages,  adorn'd  the  scene. 
Gardens  and  fields,  and  shepherds'  walks  between" 
Through  all,  a  streamlet,  from  its  mountain-source 
Seen  but  by  stealth,  pursued  its  willowy  course 

213 


30 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


\Vhen  first  the  mingling  sons  of  God  and  man 
The  demon-sacrifice  of  war  began, 
Self-exiled  here,  the  family  of  Selh 
Renounced  a  world  of  violence  and  death, 
Faithful  alone  amidst  the  faithless  found,' 
And  innocent  while  murder  cursed  the  ground. 
Here,  in  retirement  from  profane  mankind, 
They  worshipp'd  God  wath  purity  of  mind, 
Fed  their  small  flocks,  and  till'd  their  narrow  soil, 
Like  parent  Adam,  with  submissive  toil, 
— Adam,  whose  eyes  their  pious  hands  had  closed. 
Whose  bones  beneath  their  quiet  turf  reposed. 
No  glen  like  this,  unstain'd  with  human  blood, 
Could  youthful  Nature  boast  before  the  flood  ; 
Far  less  shall  Earth,  now  hastening  to  decay, 
A  scene  of  sweeter  loneliness  display. 
Where  nought  was  heard  but  sounds  of  peace  and 

love, 
Nor  seen  but  woods  around,  and  heaven  above. 

Yet  not  in  cold  and  unconcern'd  content, 
Their  years  in  that  dehcious  range  were  spent; 
Oft  from  their  haunts  the  fervent  Patriarchs  broke, 
In  strong  affection  to  their  kindred  spoke, 
With  tears  and  prayers  reproved  their  gro\\ang  crimes, 
Or  told  the  impending  judgments  of  the  times. 
In  vain;  the  world  despised  the  warning  word. 
With  scorn  belied  it,  or  with  mockery  heard, 
Forbade  the  zealous  monitors  to  roam, 
A.nd  stoned,  or  chased  them  to  their  forest  home. 
There,  from  the  depth  of  soUtude,  their  sighs 
Pleaded  with  Heaven  in  ceaseless  sacrifice, 
And  long  did  righteous  Heaven  the  guilty  spare. 
Won  by  the  holy  violence  of  prayer. 

Yet  sharper  pangs  of  unavailing  woe, 
Those  Sires  in  secrecy  were  doom'd  to  know ; 
Oft  by  the  world's  alluring  snares  misled, 
Their  youth  from  that  sequester'd  valley  fled, 
Join'd  the  wild  herd,  increased  the  godless  crew, 
And  left  the  virtuous  remnant  weak  and  few. 


CANTO  IV 


Enoch  relates  to  Javan  the  Circumstances  of  the 
Death  of  Adam,  including  his  Appointment  of  an 
annual  Sacrifice  on  the  Day  of  his  Transgression 
and  Fall  in  Paradise. 


Thus  through  the  valley  while  they  held  their  walk, 
Enoch  of  former  days  began  to  talk : 
— "  Thou  know'st  our  place  of  sacrifice  and  prayer, 
Javan  !  for  thou  wert  wont  to  worship  there  : 
Built  by  our  father's  venerable  hands. 
On  the  same  spot  our  ancient  altar  stands, 
Where,  driven  from  Eden's  hallovv'd  groves,  he  found 
Ap  home  on  earth's  unconsecrated  ground  ; 
Whence  too,  hia.  pilgrimage  of  trial  o'er, 
He  reach'd  the  rest  which  sin  can  break  no  more. 
Oft  hast  thou  heard  our  elder  Patriarchs  tell 
How  Adam  once  by  disobedience  fell ; 


I  So  spoke  the  serapn  Abdie),  faithful  found 
Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he. 

Par.  Lost,  Book  V. 


Would  that  my  tongue  were  gifted  to  display 
The  terror  and  the  ^ry  of  that  day 
When,  seized  and  stricken  by  the  hand  of  Death, 
The  first  transgressor  yielded  up  his  breath ! 
Nigh  threescore  years,  with  interchanging  light. 
The  host  of  heaven  have  measured  day  and  night, 
Since  we  beheld  the  ground,  from  which  he  rose. 
On  his  returning  dust  in  silence  close. 

"  With  him  his  noblest  sons  might  not  compare. 
In  godlike  feature  and  majestic  air ; 
Not  out  of  weakness  rose  his  gradual  frame. 
Perfect  from  his  Creator's  hand  he  came ; 
And  as  in  form  excelling,  so  in  mind 
The  Sire  of  men  transcended  all  manldnd  ; 
A  soul  was  in  his  eye,  and  in  his  speech 
A  dialect  of  heaven  no  art  could  reach ; 
For  oft  of  old  to  him,  the  evening  breeze 
Had  borne  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees ; 
Angels  were  wont  their  songs  with  his  to  blend. 
And  talk  with  him  as  their  familiar  friend. 
But  deep  remorse  for  that  mysterious  crime, 
Whose  dire  contagion  through  elapsing  time 
Diffused  the  curse  of  death  beyond  control, 
Had  wrought  such  seH-abasement  in  his  soul, 
That  he,  w  hose  honors  were  approach'd  by  none, 
Was  yet  the  meekest  man  beneath  the  sun. 
From  sin,  as  from  the  serpent  that  betray'd 
Eve's  early  innocence,  he  shrunk  afraid  ; 
V'ice  he  rebuked  with  so  austere  a  frown, 
He  secm'd  to  bring  an  instant  judgment  down  ; 
Yet,  while  he  chid,  compunctious  tears  would  start- 
And  yearning  tenderness  dissolve  his  heart ; 
The  guilt  of  all  his  race  became  his  own, 
He  suffer'd  as  if  he  had  sinn'd  alone. 
Within  our  glen  to  filial  love  endear'd. 
Abroad  for  wisdom,  truth,  and  justice  fear'd. 
He  walk'd  so  humbly  in  the  sight  of  all. 
The  vilest  ne'er  reproach'd  him  with  his  fall. 
Children  were  his  delight ; — they  ran  to  meet 
His  soothing  hand,  and  clasp'd  his  honored  feet ; 
While,  'midst  their  fearless  sports  supremely  blest- 
He  grew  in  heart  a  child  among  the  rest : 
Yet,  as  a  Parent,  nought  beneath  the  sky 
Touch'd  him  so  quickly  as  an  infant's  eve  : 
Joy  from  its  smile  of  happiness  he  caught ; 
Its  flash  of  rage  sent  horror  through  his  thought 
His  smitten  conscience  felt  as  fierce  a  pain. 
As  if  he  fell  from  innocence  again. 

"  One  morn  I  track'd  him  on  his  lonely  way. 
Pale  as  the  gleam  of  slow-awakening  day  ; 
W^iih  feeble  step  he  chmb'd  yon  craggy  height, 
Thence  fix'd  on  distant  Paradise  his  sight ; 
He  gazed  awhile  in  silent  thought  profound. 
Then  falling  prostrate  on  the  dewy  ground. 
He  pour'd  his  spirit  in  a  flood  of  prayer, 
Bewail'd  his  ancient  crime  with  self-despair, 
And  claim'd  the  pledge  of  reconcihng  grace. 
The  promised  Seed,  the  Savior  of  his  race. 
Wrestling  Avith  God,  as  Nature's  vigor  fail'd 
His  faith  grew  stronger  and  his  plea  prevail'd 
The  prayer  from  agony  to  rapture  rose, 
And  sweet  as  Angel  accents  fell  the  close. 
I  stood  to  greet  him :  when  he  raised  his  head, 
Divine  expression  o'er  his  visage  spread ; 

214 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


31 


t 


His  presence  was  so  saintly  lo  behold, 
He  seera'd  in  sinless  Paradise  grown  old. 

" — 'This  day,'   said  he,   'in  Time's    star-lighted 
round. 
Renews  the  anguish  of  that  mortal  wound 
On  me  inflicted,  when  the  Serpent's  tongue 
My  Spouse  with  his  beguiling  falsehood  stung. 
Though  years  of  grace  through  centuries  have  pass'd, 
Since  my  transgression,  this  may  be  the  last  j 
Iniirmilies  without,  and  fears  within. 
Foretell  the  consummating  stroke  of  sin  ; 
The  hour,  the  place,  the  form  lo  me  unknown, 
But  God,  who  lent  me  life,  will  claim  his  own ; 
Then,  lest  I  sink  as  suddenly  in  death, 
As  quicken'd  into  being  by  his  breath, 
Oiue  more  I  climb'd  these  rocks  with  weary  pace, 
And  but  once  more,  to  view  my  native  place, 
To  bid  yon  garden  of  delight  farewell. 
The  earthly  Paradise  from  which  I  fell. 
This  mantle,  Enoch  1  which  I  yearly  wear 
To  mark  the  day  of  penitence  and  prayer, — 
These  skins,  the  covering  of  my  first  oflence, 
"\Mien,  conscious  of  departed  innocence, 
ISaked  and  trembling,  from  my  Judge  I  fled, 
A  hand  of  mercy  o'er  my  vileness  spread ; — 
Enoch !  this  mantle,  tnjas  vouchsafed  to  me 
At  my  dismission,  I  bequeath  to  thee; 
Wear  it  in  sad  memorial  on  this  day, 
And  yearly  at  mine  earliest  altar  slay 
A  lamb  immaculate,  whose  blood  be  spilt 
In  sign  of  wrilh  removed  and  cancell'd  guilt: 
So  be  the  sins  of  all  my  race  confest, 
Sj  on  their  heads  may  peace  and  pardon  rest.' 
— Thus  spake  our  Sire,  and  down  the  steep  descent 
With  strengthen'd  heart  and  fearless  fjotstep  went : 

0  Javan !  when  we  parted  at  his  door, 

1  loved  him  as  I  never  loved  before. 

''  Ere  noon,  returning  to  his  bovver,  I  found 
Our  father  laboring  in  his  harvest  ground 
(For  yet  he  till'd  a  little  plot  of  soil. 
Patient  and  pleased  with  voluntary  toil) ; 
But  O  how  changed  from  him,  whose  morning  eye 
Outshone  the  star,  that  told  the  sun  was  nigh ! 
Loose  in  his  feeble  grasp  the  sickle  shook  ; 
I  mark'd  the  ghastly  dolor  of  his  look. 
And  ran  to  help  him ;   but  his  latest  strength 
Fail'd  ; — prone  upon  his  sheaves  he  fell  at  length  : 
I  strove  to  raise  him ;  sight  and  sense  were  fled. 
Nerveless  his  limbs,  and  backward  sway'd  his  head. 
Seth  pass'd ;  I  call'd  him,  and  we  bore  our  Sire 
To  n'^ighlioring  shades  from  noon's  afflictive  fire : 
Ere  long  he  'woke  to  feeling,  with  a  sigh, 
And  half  unclosed  his  hesitating  eye  ; 
Strangely  and  timidly  he  peer'd  around, 
Like  men  in  dreams  whom  sudden  lights  confound ; 
— '  Is  this  a  new  Creation  ? — Have  I  pass'd 
The  bitterness  of  death?' — He  look'd  aghast. 
Then  sorrowful ; — '  No  ;  men  and  trees  appear ; 
T  is  not  a  new  Creation, — pain  is  here  : 
From  Sin's  dominion  is  there  no  release  ? 
Lord !  let  thy  Servant  now  depart  in  peace.' 
— Hurried  remembrance  crowding  o'er  his  soul, 
He  knew  us ;  tears  of  consternation  stole 
Down  his  pale  cheeks: — 'Sethi — Enoch!  Where  is 

Eve? 
How  could  the  spouse  her  dying  consort  leave  V 


"  Eve  look'd  that  moment  from  their  cottage-door 
In  quest  of  Adam,  where  he  toil'd  before ; 
He  was  not  there,  she  call'd  him  by  his  name ; 
Sweet  to  his  ear  the  well-known  accents  came  ; 

Here  am  I,'  answer'd  he,  in  tone  so  weak. 
That  we  who  held  him  scarcely  heard  him  speak; 
But  resolutely  bent  to  rise,  in  vain 
He  struggled  till  he  swoon'd  away  with  pain. 
Eve  call'd  again,  and  turning  towards  the  shade, 
Helpless  as  infancy,  beheld  him  laid ; 
She  sprang,  as  smitten  with  a  mortal  wound, 
Forward,  and  cast  herself  upon  the  ground 
At  Adam's  feet ;  half-rising  in  despair, 
Him  from  our  arms  she  wildly  strove  to  tear ; 
Repell'd  by  gentle  violence,  she  press'd 
His  powerless  hand  to  her  convulsive  breast. 
And  kneeling,  bending  o'er  him,  full  of  fears 
Warm  on  his  bosom  shower'd  her  silent  tears. 
Light  to  his  eyes  at  that  refreshment  came, 
They  open'd  on  her  in  a  transient  flame ; 
— '  And  art  thou  here,  my  Life  !  my  Love ! '  he  cried 
'  Faithful  in  death  to  this  congenial  side  ? 
Thus  let  me  bind  thee  to  my  breaking  heart, 
One  dear,  one  bitter  moment,  ere  we  part.' 
— 'Leave  me  not,  Adam !  leave  me  not  below; 
W^ith  thee  I  tarry,  or  with  thee  I  go,' 
She  said,  and  yielding  to  his  faint  embrace. 
Clung  round  his  neck,  and  wept  upon  his  face. 
Alarming  recollection  soon  return'd. 
His  fever'd  frame  with  growing  anguish  burn'd : 
Ah !  then,  as  nature's  tenderest  impulse  wrought, 
With  fond  solicitude  of  love  she  sought 
To  soothe  his  limbs  upon  their  grassy  bed, 
And  make  the  pillow  easy  to  his  head ; 
She  wiped  his  reeking  temples  with  her  hair ; 
She  shook  the  leaves  to  stir  the  sleeping  air; 
^rloisten'd  his  lips  with  kisses :  with  her  breath 
Vainly  essay 'd  to  quell  the  fire  of  Death, 
That  ran  and  revell'd  through  his  swollen  veins 
With  quicker  pulses,  and  severer  pains. 

"  The  sun,  in  summer  majesty  on  high. 
Darted  his  fierce  effulgence  down  the  sky ; 
Yet  dimm'd  and  blunted  were  the  dazzling  rays. 
His  orb  expanded  through  a  dreary  haze. 
And,  circled  with  a  red  portentous  zone, 
He  look'd  in  sickly  horror  from  his  throne : 
The  vital  air  was  still ;  the  torrid  heat 
Oppress'd  our  hearts,  that  labor'd  hard  to  beat. 
AVhen  higher  noon  had  shrunk  the  lessening  shade, 
Thence  to  his  home  our  father  we  convey'd. 
And  stretch'd  him,  pillow'd  with  his  latest  sheaves, 
On  a  fresh  couch  of  green  and  fragrant  leaves. 
Here,  though  his  sufferings  through  the  glen  were 

known, 
We  chose  to  watch  his  dying  bed  alone, 

Eve,  Seth,  and  I. In  vain  he  sigh'd  lor  rest, 

And  oft  his  meek  complainings  thus  express'd : 

— 'Blow  on  me,  Wind!  I  faint  with  heat!  O  bring 

Delicious  water  from  the  deepest  spring; 

Your  sunless  shadows  o'er  my  limbs  diffuse, 

Ye  cedars!  wash  me  cold  with  midnight  dews. 

— Cheer  me,  my  friends!  with  loolis  of  kindness 

cheer ; 
Whisper  a  Avord  of  comfort  in  mine  ear ; 
Those  sorrowing  faces  fill  my  soul  with  gloom; 
This  silence  is  the  silence  of  the  tomb. 

215 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thither  I  hasten ;  help  me  on  my  %vay ; 

0  sing  to  soothe  me,  and  to  strengthen  pray ! ' 
VV^e  sang  to  soothe  liim, — hopeless  w  as  the  song  ; 
VVe  pray'd  to  strengthen  him, — he  grew  not  strong. 
In  vain  from  every  herb,  and  fruit,  and  flower, 

Of  cordial  sweetness,  or  of  healing  power, 
We  press'd  the  virtue ;  no  terrestrial  balm 
Kature's  dissolving  agony  could  calm. 
Thus,  as  the  day  dechned,  the  fell  disease 
Eclipsed  the  light  of  life  by  slow  degrees : 
Yet  while  his  pangs  grew  sharper,  more  resign'd, 
More  self-collected,  grew  the  sufferer's  mind ; 
Patient  of  heart,  though  rack'd  at  every  pore, 
The  righteous  penalty  of  sin  he  bore  ; 
Not  his  the  fortitude  that  mocks  at  pains, 
But  that  which  feels  them  most,  and  yet  sustains. 
— '  'T  is  just,  't  is  merciful,'  we  heard  him  say  ; 
'Yet  wherefore  hath  He  turn'd  his  face  away? 

1  see  Him  not ;  I  hear  Him  not ;  I  call ; 
My  God !  my  God !  support  me,  or  I  fall.' 

"  Tlie  sun  went  down,  amidst  an  angry  glare 
Of  flushing  clouds,  that  crimson'd  all  the  air ; 
The  winds  brake  loose ;  the  forest  boughs  were  torn, 
And  dark  aloof  the  eddying  foliage  borne ; 
Cattle  to  shelter  scudded  in  affright ; 
The  florid  evening  vanish'd  into  night : 
Then  burst  the  hurricane  upon  the  vale. 
In  peals  of  thunder,  and  thick-volley'd  hail ; 
Prone  rushing  rains  with  torrents  wlielm"d  the  land. 
Our  cot  amidst  a  river  seem'd  to  stand  ; 
Around  its  base  the  foamy  crested  streams 
Flash'd  through  the  darkness  to  the  lightning's  gleams, 
With  monstrous  throes  an  earthquake  heaved  the 

ground. 
The  rocks  were  rent,  the  mountains  trembled  round ; 
Never,  since  Nature  into  being  came, 
Had  such  mysterious  motion  shook  her  frame : 
We  thought,  ingulf 'd  in  floods,  or  wrapt  in  fire, 
The  world  itself  would  perish  with  our  Sire. 

"  Amidst  this  war  of  elements,  within 
More  dreadful  grew  the  sacrifice  of  sin. 
Whose  victim  on  his  bed  of  torture  lay. 
Breathing  the  slow  remains  of  Ufe  away. 
Erewhile,  victorious  faith  sublimer  rose 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  collected  woes : 
But  now  his  spirit  waver'd,  went  and  came, 
Like  the  loose  vapor  of  departing  flame, 
Till  at  the  point,  when  comfort  seem'd  to  die 
For  ever  in  his  fix'd  unclosing  eye, 
Bright  through  the  smouldering  ashes  of  the  man, 
The  saint  brake  forth,  and  Adam  thus  began : 

"  — *  O  ye,  that  shudder  at  this  awful  strife, 
This  wrestling  agony  of  Death  and  Life, 
Think  not  that  He,  on  whom  my  soul  is  cast, 
Will  leave  me  thus  forsaken  to  the  last. 
Nature's  infu'mity  alone  you  see  ; 
My  chains  are  breaking,  I  shall  soon  be  free  ; 
Though  firm  in  God  the  Spirit  holds  her  trust. 
The  flesh  is  frail,  and  trembles  into  dust. 
Horror  and  anguish  seize  me  ; — 't  is  the  hour 
Of  darkness,  and  I  mourn  beneath  its  power ; 
The  Tempter  plies  me  with  his  direst  art, 
J  feel  the  Serpent  coihng  round  my  heart ; 


He  stirs  the  wound  he  once  inflicted  there. 
Instils  the  deadening  poison  of  despair. 
Belies  the  truth  of  God's  delaying  grace. 
And  bids  me  curse  my  Maker  to  his  face. 
— I  will  not  curse  Him,  though  his  grace  delay 
I  will  not  cease  to  trust  Him,  though  he  slay ; 
Full  on  his  promised  mercy  I  rely. 
For  God  hath  spoken, — God,  who  cannot  lie. 
— Thou,  of  my  faith  the  Author  and  the  End ! 
Mine  early,  late,  and  everlasting  Friend  ! 
The  joy,  that  once  thy  presence  gave,  restore 
Ere  I  am  summon'd  hence,  and  seen  no  more . 
Down  to  the  dust  returns  this  earthly  frame. 
Receive  my  Spirit,  Lord  !  from  whom  it  came  ; 
Rebuke  the  Tempter,  show  thy  power  to  save ; 
O  let  thy  glor}'  light  me  to  the  grave, 
That  these,  who  witness  my  departing  breath. 
May  learn  to  triumph  in  the  grasp  of  death.' 

"  He  closed  his  eyelids  with  a  tranquil  smile, 
And  seem'd  to  rest  in  silent  prayer  awhile  : 
Around  his  couch  with  filial  awe  we  kneel'd, 
When  suddenly  a  light  from  heaven  reveal'd 
A  Spirit,  that  stood  within  the  unopen'd  door ; — 
The  sword  of  God  in  his  right  hand  he  bore  ; 
His  countenance  was  lightning,  and  his  vest 
Like  snow  at  sun-rise  on  the  'mountain's  crest  ; 
Yet  so  benignly  beautiful  his  form, 
His  presence  still'd  the  fury  of  the  storm ; 
At  once  the  winds  retire,  the  waters  cease; 
His  look  was  love,  his  salutation,  '  Pej^ce ! ' 

"Our  Mother  first  beheld  him,  sore  amazed, 
But  terror  grew  to  transport,  while  she  gazed : 
— '  'T  is  He,  the  Prince  of  Seraphim,  w  ho  drove 
Our  banish'd  feet  from  Eden's  happy  grove  ; ' 
Adam,  my  Life,  my  Spouse,  awake!'  she  cried; 
'  Return  to  Paradise  ;  behold  thy  Guide  I 
O  let  me  follow  in  this  dear  embrace  I ' 
She  sunk,  and  on  his  bosom  hid  her  face. 
Adam  look'd  up ;  his  visage  changed  its  hue, 
Transform'd  into  an  Angel's  at  the  view : 
'I  come!'  he  cried,  with  faith's  full  triumph  fired. 
And  in  a  sigh  of  ecstacy  expired. 
The  light  was  vanish'd,  and  the  vision  fled  ; 
We  stood  alone,  the  living  with  the  dead ; 
The  ruddy  embers,  glimmering  round  the  room. 
Display 'd  the  corpse  amidst  the  solemn  gloom ; 
But  o'er  the  scene  a  holy  calm  reposed. 
The  gate  of  heaven  had  open'd  there,  and  closed. 

"  Eve's  faithful  arm  still  clasp'd  her  lifeless  Spou?( 
Gently  I  shook  it,  from  her  trance  to  rouse ; 
She  save  no  answer;  motionless  and  cold. 
It  fell  like  clay  from  my  relaxing  hold  ; 
Alarm'd,  I  lifted  up  the  locks  of  grey 
That  hid  her  cheek ;  her  soul  had  passed  away : 
A  beauteous  corse,  she  graced  her  partner's  side  ; 
Love  bound  their  lives,  and  Death  could  not  divid( 

"  Trembling  astonishment  of  grief  we  felt. 
Till  Nature's  sympathies  began  to  molt ; 
We  wept  in  stillness  through  the  long  dark  night ; 
— And  O  how  welcome  was  the  morning  light  I" 


I  Paradise  Lost,  Book  XI,  v.  238. 


216 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


33 


CANTO  V. 


The  Bur>nng-Place  of  the  Patriarchs. — The'  sacrifice 
on  the  Anniversary  of  the  Fall  of  Adam. — Enoch's 
Prophecy. 


"  And  here,"  said  Enoch,  with  dejected  eye, 
«  Behold  the  grave,  in  which  our  Parents  lie." 
They  stopt,  and  o'er  the  turf  inclosure  wept, 
Where,  side  by  side,  the  Fii-st-Created  slept : 
It  seem'd  as  if,  a  voice,  with  still  small  sound, 
Heard  in  their  bosoms,  issued  from  that  mound : 
— "  From  earth  we  came,  and  we  return'd  to  earth ; 
Descendants !  spare  the  dust  that  gave  you  birth  ; 
Though  Death,  the  pain  for  my  transgression  due, 
By  sad  inheritance  we  left  to  you, 

0  let  our  children  bless  us  in  our  grave. 

And  man  forgive  the  wrong  that  God  forgave!" 

Thence  to  the  altar  Enoch  turn'd  his  face ; 
But  Javan  linger'd  in  that  burying-place, 
A  scene  sequester'd  from  the  haunts  of  men, 
The  loveliest  nook  of  all  that  lovely  glen. 
Where  weary  pilgrims  found  their  last  repose  : 
The  little  heaps  were  ranged  in  comely  rows. 
With  walks  between,  by  friends  and  kindred  trod. 
Who  dress'd  with  duteous  hands  each  hallow'd  sod : 
No  sculptured  monument  was  taught  to  breathe 
His  praises  whom  the  worm  devour'd  beneath ; 
The  high,  the  low,  the  mighty,  and  the  fair, 
Equal  in  death,  were  imdistinguish'd  there  : 
Yet  not  a  hillock  moulder'd  near  that  spot, 
By  one  dishonor'd,  or  by  all  forgot ; 
To  some  warm  heart  the  poorest  dust  w^as  dear, 
From  some  kind  eye  the  meanest  claim'd  a  tear ; 
And  oft  the  living,  by  affection  led. 
Were  wont  to  walk  in  spirit  with  their  dead. 
Where  no  dark  cypres'?  cast  a  doleful  gloom. 
No  olighuiig  yew  shed  poison  o'er  the  tomb. 
But,  white  and  red  with  intermingling  flowers. 
The  graves  look'd  beautiful  in  sun  and  showers. 
Green  myrtles  fenced  it,  and  beyond  their  bound 
Ran  the  clear  rill  with  ever-murmuring  sound  ; 
'Twas  not  a  scene  for  Grief  to  nourish  care — 
It  breathed  of  Hope,  and  moved  the  heart  to  prayer. 

Why  linger'd  Javan  in  that  lone  retreat? 
The  shrine  of  her  that  bare  him  drew  his  feet ; 
Trembling  he  sought  it,  fearing  to  behold 
A  bed  of  thistles,  or  unsightly  mould  ; 
But  lol  the  turf,  which  his  own  hands  had  piled. 
With  choicest  flowers  and  richest  verdure  smiled : 
By  all  the  glen,  his  mother's  couch  of  rest. 
In  his  default,  was  visited  and  blest. 
He  kneel'd,  he  kiss'd  it.  full  of  love  and  woe; 
His  heart  was  where  his  treasure  lay,  below ; 
And  long  he  tarried,  ere,  with  heav'nward  eyes, 
He  rose,  and  hasten'd  to  the  sacrifice. 

Already  on  a  neighboring  mount,  that  stood 
■  Apart  amidst  the  valley,  girt  with  wood, 
iWhose  open  summit,  rising  o'er  the  trees, 

1  Caught  the  cool  fragrance  of  the  evening  breeze. 
The  Patriarchal  worshippers  were  met ; 

The  Lamb  was  brought,  the  wood  in  order  set 
28  T 


On  Adam's  rustic  altar,  moss-o'ergrown. 

An  imwrought  mass  of  earth-imbedded  stone. 

Long  known  and  hallow'd,  where,  for  man's  offence 

The  earth  first  drank  the  blood  of  innocence, 

When  God  himself  ordain'd  the  typic  rite 

To  Eden's  Exiles,  resting  on  -their  flight. 

Foremost,  amidst  the  grou)),  was  Enoch  seen. 

Known  by  his  humble  port,  and  heavenly  mien: 

On  him  the  Priest's  mysterious  office  la}'. 

For  't  was  the  eve  of  Man's  transgression-day 

And  him  had  Adam,  with  expiring  breath, 

Ordain'd  to  offer  yearly,  from  his  death, 

A  victim  on  that  mountain,  whence  the  skies 

Had  first  inhaled  the  fumes  of  sacrifice. 

In  Adam's  coat  of  skins  array'd  he  stands. 

Spreading  to  Heaven  his  supplicating  hands. 

Ere  from  his  robe  the  deadly  steel  he  drew 

To  smite  the  victim  sporting  in  his  view. 

Behind  him  Seth,  in  majesty  confest. 

The  World's  great  Elder,  tower'd  above  the  rest. 

Serenely  shone  his  sweet  and  solemn  eye, 

Like  the  sun  reigning  in  the  western  sky  ; 

Though  nine  slow  centuries  by  stealth  had  shed 

Grey  hairs,  the  crown  of  glory,  on  his  head, 

In  hardy  health  he  rear'd  his  front  sublime, 

Like  the  green  aloe,  in  perennial  prime. 

When  full  of  years  it  shoots  forth  all  its  bloom, 

And  glads  the  forest  through  the  inmost  gloom ; 

So,  in  the  blossom  of  a  good  old  age, 

Flourish'd  amidst  his  sons  that  peerless  sage. 

Around  him,  in  august  succession,  stood 
The  fathers  of  the  World  before  the  Flood  : 
— Enos,  who  taught  mankind,  on  solemn  days, 
In  sacred  groves,  to  meet  for  prayer  and  praise, 
And  warn'd  idolaters  to  lift  their  eye, 
From  sun  and  stars,  to  Him  who  made  the  sky : 
— Canaan  and  Malaliel,  of  whom  alone. 
Their  age,  of  all  that  once  they  were,  is  known : 
— Jared,  who,  full  of  hope  beyond  the  tomb, 
Hallow'd  his  offspring  from  the  Mother's  wornb,' 
And  Heaven  received  the  Soji  that  Parent  gave, 
He  walk'd  with  God,  and  overstep^  the  grave ; 
— A  mighty  pilgrim  in  the  vale  of  tears. 
Born  to  the  troubles  of  a  thousand  years, 
Methu.selah,  whose  feet  unhalting  ran 
To  the  last  circle  of  the  life  of  man  : 
— Lamecli,  from  infancy  inured  to  toil, 
To  wring  slow  blessings  from  the  accursed  soil, 
Ere  yet  to  dress  his  vineyards,  reap  his  corn, 
And  comfijrt  him  in  care,  was  Noah  born,^ 
Who  in  a  later  age,  by  signal  grace. 
Survived  to  renovate  the  human  race; 
Both  worlds,  by  .sad  reversion,  were  his  due. 
The  Orphan  of  the  old,  the  Father  of  the  new 

These,  with  their  families  on  either  hand. 
Aliens  and  exiles  in  their  native  land. 
The  few  who  loved  their  Maker  from  their  youth. 
And  worshipp'd  God  in  spirit  and  in  truth ; 
These  stood  with  Enoch : — All  had  fix'd  their  eyes 
On  him,  and  on  the  Lamb  of  sacrifice. 


1  The  name  of  Enoch,  the  son  of  Jared,  is  derived  from  cha. 
nac,  to  dedicate. 

'2  And  he  called  his  name  Noah.  .<;ayine,  Thi?  name  shall 
rnnifort  us  concerninff  our  work,  nnd  toil  of  our  hjinds,  brrausi' 
of  tJie  ground  which  the  Lord  hath  cursed.— Gew.  v.  v.  29. 

217 


.•?4 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  now  with  trembling  hand  he  shed  the  blood, 
And  placed  the  slaiighter'd  victim  on  the  wood ; 
Then  kneeling,  as  the  sun  went  down,  he  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  hallow'd  pyre,  and  pray'd  : — 
"  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth  !  supreme  o'er  all 
That  live,  and  move,  and  breathe,  on  Thee  we  call : 
Oiir  father  sinn'd  and  suffer'd  ; — we,  who  bear 
Our  father's  image,  his  transgression  share  ; 
Humbled  for  his  offences,  and  our  own, 
Thou,  who  art  holy,  wise,  and  just  alone. 
Accept,  with  free  confession  of  our  guilt, 
This  victim  slain,  this  blood  devoutly  spilt. 
While  through  the  veil  of  sacrifice  we  see 
Thy  mercy  smiling,  and  look  up  to  Thee  ; 
O  grant  forgiveness  ;  povver  and  grace  are  thine  ; 
God  of  salvation !  cause  thy  face  to  shine  ; 
Hear  us  in  Heaven!  fulfil  our  soul's  desire, 
God  of  our  father !  answer  now  with  fire." 

He  rose ;  no  light  from  Heaven  around  him  shone, 
No  fire  descended  from  the  eternal  throne ; 
Cold  on  the  pile  the  offer'd  victim  lay. 
Amidst  the  stillness  of  expiring  day : 
The  eyes  of  all  that  watch'd  in  vain  to  view 
The  wonted  sign,  distractedly  withdrew ; 
Fear  dipt  their  breath,  their  doubling  pulses  raised. 
And  each  by  stealth  upon  his  neighbor  gazed  ; 
From  heart  to  heart  a  strange  contagion  ran, 
A  shuddering  instinct  crowded  man  to  man ; 
Even  Seth  with  secret  consternation  shook, 
And  cast  on  Enoch  an  imploring  look. 
Enoch,  in  whose  sublime,  unearthly  mien. 
No  change  of  hue,  no  cloud  of  care,  was  seen. 
Full  on  the  mute  assembly  turn'd  his  face, 
Clear  as  the  sun  prepared  to  run  his  race. 
He  spoke ;  his  words,  with  awful  warning  fraught, 
Ralhed  and  fix'd  the  scatter'd  powers  of  thought : 
"  Men,  brethren,  fathers  !  wherefore  do  ye  fear  I 
Hath  God  departed  from  us  ? — God  is  here  ; 
Present  in  every  heart,  with  sovereign  power, 
He  tries,  he  proves  his  people  in  this  hour ; 
Naked  as  light  to  his  all-searching  eye. 
The  thonsrhts  that  wrong,  the  doubts  that  tempt  Him 

he; 
Yet  slow  to  anger,  merciful  as  just. 
He  knows  our  frame,  remembers  we  are  dust, 
And  spares  our  weakness : — In  this  truth  believe, 
Hope  against  hope,  and  ask  till  ye  .receive. 
What,  though  no  flame  on  Adam's  altar  burn. 
No  signal  of  acceptance  yet  return  ? 
God  is  not  man,  who  to  our  father  sware. 
All  times,  in  every  place,  to  answer  prayer. 
He  cannot  change ;  though  heaven  and  earth  decay. 
The  word  of  God  shall  never  pass  away. 

"  But  mark  the  season  : — from  the  rising  sun. 
Westward,  the  race  of  Cain  the  world  o'errun ; 
Their  monarch,  mightiest  of  the  sons  of  men. 
Hath  sworn  destruction  to  the  Patriarchs'  glen ; 
Hither  he  hastens;  carnage  strews  his  path: 
— Who  will  await  the  giant  in  his  wrath  ? 
Or  who  will  take  the  wings  of  silent  night. 
And  seek  deliverance  from  his  sword  by  flight  ? 
Thus  saith  the  Lord  : — Ye  Aveak  of  faith  and  heart ! 
Who  dare  not  trust  the  living  God,  depart; 
The  Angel  of  his  presence  leads  your  way, 
^'our  lives  are  safe,  and  given  you  as  a  prey  : 


But  ye  who,  unappall'd  at  earthly  harm. 
Lean  on  the  strength  of  his  Almighty  arm. 
Prepared  for  life  or  death,  with  firm  accord, 
— Stand  still,  and  see  the  glory  of  the  Lord." 

A  pause,  a  dreary  pause,  ensued : — then  cried 
The  holy  man, — "  On  either  hand  divide  ; 
The  feeble  fly ;  with  me  the  valiant  stay  : 
Choose  now  your  portion ;  whor;  will  ye  obey, 
God,  or  your  fears  ?  His  counsel,  or  your  own  T' 
— "  The  Lord,  the  Lord,  for  He  is  God  alone!" 
Exclaim'd  at  once,  with  consentaneous  choice. 
The  whole  assembly,  heart,  and  soul,  and  voice. 
Then  light  from  Heaven  with  sudden  beauty  came 
Pure  on  the  altar  blazed  the  unkindled  flame. 
And  upwards  to  their  glorious  source  return'd 
The  sacred  fires  in  which  the  victim  burn'd  : 
While  through  the  evening  gloom,  to  distant  eyes, 
Mom  o'er  the  Patriarchs'  mountain  seem'd  to  rise. 

Awe-stmck,  the  congregation  kneeVd  around. 
And  worshipp'd  with  their  faces  to  the  ground ; 
The  peace  of  God.  beyond  expression  sweet, 
Fill'd  every  spirit  humbled  at  his  feet. 
And  love,  joy,  wonder,  deeply  mingling  there. 
Drew  from  the  heart  unutterable  prayer. 

They  rose : — as  if  his  soul  had  pass'd  awayi 
Prostrate  before  the  altar  Enoch  lay. 
Entranced  so  deeply,  all  believed  him  dead : 
At  length  he  breathed,  he  moved,  he  raised  his  head, 
To  Heaven  in  ecstacy  he  turn'd  his  eyes ; 
— With  such  a  look  the  dead  in  Christ  shall  rise. 
When  the  last  trumpet  calls  them  from  the  dust^ 
To  join  the  resurrection  of  the  just : 
Yea,  and  from  earthly  grossness  so  refined, 
(As  if  the  soul  had  left  the  flesh  behind. 
Yet  wore  a  mortal  semblance),  upright  stood 
The  great  Evangelist  before  the  Flood  ; 
On  him  the  vision  of  the  Almighty  broke. 
And  future  times  were  present  while  he  spoke.' 

"  The  Saints  shall  suffer  ;  righteousness  shall  fail| 
O'er  all  the  world  iniquity  prevail ; 
Giants,  in  fierce  contempt  of  man  and  God, 
Shall  rule  the  nations  with  an  iron  rod  ; 
On  every  mountain  idol-groves  shall  rise. 
And  darken  Heaven  with  human  sacrifice. 
But  God  the  Avenger  comes, — a  judgment-day, 
A  flood  shall  sweep  his  enemies  away. 
How  few,  whose  eyes  shall  then  have  seen  the  sv 
— One  righteous  family,  and  only  one, — 
Saved  from  that  wreck  of  Nature,  shall  behold 
The  new  Creation  rising  from  the  old  I 

"  O,  that  the  world  of  wickedness,  destroy 'd. 
Might  lie  for  ever  without  form  and  void ! 
Or,  that  the  earth,  to  innocence  restored, 
Might  flourish  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord  I 
It  will  not  be : — among  the  sons  of  men. 
The  Giant-Spirit  shall  go  forth  again. 
From  clime  to  clime  shall  kindle  murderous  rage, 
And  spread  the  plagues  of  sin  from  age  to  age ; 
Yet  shall  the  God  of  mercy,  from  above. 
Extend  the  golden  sceptre  of  his  love. 


Numbers,  xxiv,  v.  4. 


218 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


S5 


And  win  the  rebels  to  his  righteous  sway, 
Till  every  mouth  confess,  and  heart  obey. 

"  Amidst  the  visions  of  ascending  years, 
What  mighty  Chief,  what  Conqueror  appears  ! ' 
His  garments  roll'd  in  blood,  his  eyes  of  flame, 
And  on  his  thigh  the  unutterable  name  ?  ^ 
— '  'T  is  I,  that  bring  deliverance  :  strong  to  save, 
I  pluck'd  the  prey  from  death,  and  spoil'd  the  grave.' 
— Wherefore,  O  Warrior !  are  thy  garments  red, 
Like  those  whose  feet  amidst  the  vintage  tread  ? 
— '  I  trod  the  wine-press  of  the  field  alone  ; 
I  look'd  around  for  succor ;  there  was  none  ; 
Therefore  my  wrath  sustain'd  me  while  I  fought. 
And  mine  own  arm  my  Saints'  salvation  wrought.' 
— Thus  may  thine  arm  for  evermore  prevail ; 
Thiis  may  thy  foes,  O  Lord !  for  ever  fail  ; 
Captive  by  thee  captivity  be  led ; 
Seed  of  the  woman !  bruise  the  serpent's  head  ; 
Redeemer !  promised  since  the  world  began, 
Bow  the  high  heavens,  and  condescend  to  man. 

"  Hail  to  the  Day-spring  I  dawning  from  afar, 
Bright  in  the  east  I  see  his  natal  star : 
Prisoners  of  hope  !  lift  up  your  joyful  eyes  ; 
Welcome  the  King  of  Glory  from  the  skies : 
Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ? — Mark  his  birth : 
In  deep  humility  he  stoops  to  earth. 
Assumes  a  Servant's  form,  a  Pilgrim's  lot, 
Comes  to  his  own,  his  own  receive  him  not, 
Though  angel-choirs  his  peaceful  advent  greet, 
\nd  Gentile-sages  worship  at  his  feet. 

"  Fair  as  that  sovereign  Plant,  whose  scions  shoot 
With  healing  verdure,  and  immortal  fruit, 
The  Tree  of  Life,  beside  the  stream  that  laves 
The  fields  of  Paradise  with  gladdening  waves ; 
Behold  him  rise  from  infancy  to  j^outh, 
The  Father's  image,  full  of  grace  and  truth  ; 
Tried,  tempted,  proved  in  secret,  till  the  hour. 
When,  girt  with  meekness,  but  array'd  with  power, 
Forth  in  the  spirit  of  the  Lord,  at  length. 
Like  the  sun  shining  in  meridian  strength, 
He  goes  : — to  preach  good  tidings  to  the  poor ; 
To  heal  the  wounds  that  nature  cannot  cure ; 
To  bind  the  broken-hearted ;  to  control 
Disease  and  death  ;  to  raise  the  sinking  soul  ; 
Unbar  the  dungeon,  set  the  captive  free, 
Proclaim  the  joyous  year  of  liberty, 
And  from  the  depth  of  undiscover'd  night, 
Brinj-  life  and  immortality  to  light. 

"  Huw  beauteous  on  the  mountains  are  thy  feet, 
Thy  form  how  comely,  and  thy  voice  how  sweet. 
Son  of  the  Highest ! — Who  can  tell  thy  fame  ? 
The  Deaf  shall  hear  it,  while  the  Dumb  proclaim ; 
Now  bid  the  Blind  behold  their  Savior's  light. 
The  Lame  go  forth  rejoicing  in  thy  might ; 
Cleanse  with  a  touch  yon  kneeling  Leper's  skin ; 
Cheer  this  pale  Penitent,  forgive  her  sin; 
O,  for  that  Mother's  faith,  her  Daughter  spare ; 
Restore  the  Maniac  to  a  Father's  prayer ; 
Pity  the  tears  those  mournful  Sisters  shed, 
And  be  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead! 


1  Isa.  Ixiii.  v.  1—6. 


2  Rev.  xix,  v.  12. 


"  What  scene  is  this  ? — Amidst  involving  gloom. 
The  moonlight  lingers  on  a  lonely  tomb  ; 
No  noise  disturbs  the  garden's  hallow'd  boimd. 
But  the  watch  walking  on  their  midnight  round  : 
Ah !  who  lies  here,  with  marr'd  and  bloodless  mien, 
In  whom  no  form  or  comeliness  is  seen ; 
His  livid  limbs  with  nails  and  scourges  torn. 
His  side   transpierced,  his  temples  wreathed  with 

thorn  ? 
'T  is  He,  the  Man  of  Sorrows  !  he  who  bore ' 
Our  sins  and  chastisement : — His  toils  are  o'er. 
On  earth  erewhile  a  suffering  life  he  led. 
Here  hath  he  found  a  place  to  lay  his  head  ; 
Rank'd  with  transgressors,  he  resign'd  his  breath. 
But  with  the  rich  he  made  his  bed  in  death. 
Sweet  is  the  grave  where  Angels  watch  and  weep. 
Sweet  is  the  grave,  and  sanctified  his  sleep ; 
Rest,  O  my  spirit !  by  this  martyr'd  form, 
This  wreck,  that  sunk  beneath  the  Almighty  storm. 
When  floods  of  wrath,  that  weigh 'd  the  world  to  hell. 
On  him  alone,  in  righteous  vengeance,  fell  ; 
While  men  derided,  demons  urged  his  woes. 
And  God  forsook  him, — tdl  the  awful  close ; 
Then,  in  triumphant  agony,  he  cried, 
— ''Tis  finish'd!' — bow'd  his  sacred  head,  and  died. 
Death,  as  he  struck  that  noblest  victim,  found 
His  sting  was  lost  for  ever  in  the  wound ; 
The  Grave,  that  holds  his  corse,  her  richest  prize. 
Shall  yield  him  back,  victorious,  to  the  skies. 
He  lives: — ye  bars  of  steel  I  ye  gates  of  brass! 
Give  way,  and  let  the  King  of  Glory  pass ; 
He  lives ; — ye  golden  portals  of  the  spheres  ! 
Open,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  appears. 
But,  ah !  my  Spirit  faints  beneath  the  blaze, 
That  breaks,  and  brightens  o'er  the  latter  days. 
When  every  tongue  his  trophies  shall  proclaim. 
And  every  knee  shall  worship  at  his  name ; 
For  He  shall  reign  with  undivided  power. 
To  Earth's  last  bounds,  to  Nature's  final  hour.  , 

"'Tis  done: — again  the  conquering  Chief  appears 
In  the  dread  vision  of  dissolving  years  ; 
His  vesture  dipt  in  blood,  his  eyes  of  flame. 
The  Word  of  God  his  everlasting  name  : ' 
Throned  in  mid-heaven,  with  clouds  of  glory  spread 
He  sits  in  judgment  on  the  quick  and  dead  ; 
Strong  to  deliver  ;  Saints  !  your  songs  prepare  ; 
Rush  from  your  tombs  to  meet  him  in  the  air : 
But  terrible  in  vengeance;  Sinners!  bow^ 
Your  haughty  heads,  the  grave  protects  not  now. 
He  who  alone  in  mortal  conflict  trod 
The  mighty  wine-press  of  the  wrath  of  God, 
Shall  fill  the  cup  of  trembling  to  his  foes. 
The  unmingled  cup  of  inexhausted  woes  ; 
The  proud  shall  drink  it  in  that  dreadful  day. 
While  Earth  dissolves,  and  Heaven  is  roll'd  away." 

Here  ceased  the  Prophet : — From  the  altar  broke 
The  last  dim  wreaths  of  fire-illumined  smoke ; 
Darkness  had  fall'n  around  ;  but  o'er  the  streams 
The  Moon,  new-ris'n,  diffused  her  brightening  beams , 
Homeward,  with  tears,  the  worshippers  retuni'd, 
Yet  while  they  wept,  their  hearts  within  them  bum'd. 


1  Rev.  xix,  V.  13. 


2  Jude, 


.  14—16. 

219 


86 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CANTO  VI. 


Javan's  second  Interview  with  Zillali.  He  visits  the 
various  DweUings  scattered  throughout  the  Glen, 
and  in  the  Evening  sings  to  his  Harp,  amidst  the 
assembled  inhabitants: — Address  to  Twilight;  Ju- 
bal's  Song  of  the  Creation :  the  Power  of  Music 
exeuiplilied. 


Spent  with  the  toils  of  that  eventful  day, 
All  night  in  dreamless  slumber  Javan  lay ; 
But  early  springing  from  his  bed  of  leaves, 
Waked  by  the  songs  of  swallows  on  the  eaves, 
From  Enoch's  cottage,  in  the  cool  grey  hour, 
He  wander'd  forth  to  Zillah's  woodland  bower; 
There,  in  his  former  covert,  on  the  ground. 
The  frame  of  his  forsaken  harp  he  found ; 
He  smote  the  boss ;  the  convex  orb  unstrung, 
Instant  with  sweet  reverberation  rung : 
The  minstrel  smiled,  at  that  sonorous  stroke. 
To  find  the  spell  of  harmony  unbroke ; 
Trickling  with  dew,  he  bore  it  to  the  cell ; 
There,  as  with  leaves  he  dried  the  sculptured  shell, 
He  thought  of  ZiUah,  and  resolved  too  late 
To  plead  his  constancy,  and  know  his  fate. 

She,  from  the  hour,  when,  in  a  pilgrim's  guise, 
Javan  return'd, — a  stranger  to  her  eyes, 
Not  to  her  heart, — from  anguish  knew  no  rest. 
Love,  pride,  resentment,  struggling  in  her  breast. 
All  day  she  strove  to  hide  her  misery. 
In  vain ; — a  mother's  eye  is  quick  to  see, 
Slow  to  rebuke,  a  daughter's  bashful  fears. 
And  Zillah's  mother  only  chid  with  tears : 
Night  came,  but  Javan  came  not  with  the  night ; 
Light  vanish'd,  Hope  departed  with  the  light; 
Her  lonely  couch  conceal'd  her  sleepless  woes. 
But  with  the  morning  star  the  maiden  rose. 
The  soft  refreshing  breeze,  the  orient  beams. 
The  dew,  the  mist  unrolling  from  the  streams, 
The  light,  the  joy,  the  music  of  the  hour. 
Stole  on  her  spirit  with  resistless  i^ower. 
With  healing  sweetness  soothed  her  fever'd  biain, 
And  ^voke  the  pulse  of  tenderness  again. 
Thus  while  she  wander'd,  with  unconscious  feet. 
Absent  in  thought,  she  reach'.l  her  sylvan  seat: 
The  youth  descried  her  not  rmiidst  the  -.vood, 
Till,  hke  a  vision,  at  his  side  she  stood. 
'  Their  eyes  encounter'd  ;  I'Oth  at  once  exclaim'd, 
"  Javan  !"  and  "  Zillah  !"  —each  tho  other  named.; 
Those  sounds  were  life  or  death  to  either  heart: 
He  rose ;  she  turn'd  in  terror  to  depart ; 
He  caught  her  hand  ;  -"  O  do  not,  do  not  flee ! " 
— It  was  a  moment  '.f  eternily, 
And  now  or  never  must  he  plight  his  vow. 
Win  or  abandon  h  jr  for  e\er  now-. 

"  Stay : — hear  me^  Ziilah ! — every  power  above, 
Heaven,  earth,  ihyse)  t,  bear  witness  to  my  love ! 
Thee  have  I  1  jved  from  earliest  infancy, 
lioved  with  supreme  affection  only  thee. 
Long  in  these  shades  my  timid  passion  grew, 
Through  everv'  change,  in  every  trial  true ; 
1  loved  t+»ee  through  the  world  in  dumb  despair, 
lioved  thee,  that  I  might  love  no  other  fair; 


Guilty,  yet  faithful  still,  to  thee  I  fly. 
Receive  me,  love  me,  Zillah !  or  1  die." 

Thus  Javan's  lips,  so  long  in  silence  seal'd. 
With  sudden  vehemence  his  soul  reveal'd ; 
Zillah  meanwhile  recovered  power  to  speak, 
While  deadly  paleness  o^  ercast  her  cheek : 
— "  Say  not,  '  I  love  thee  ! ' — Witness  every  tree 
Around  this  boAver,  thy  cruel  scorn  of  me ! 
Could  Javan  love  me  through  tHe  world,  yet  leave 
Her  whom  he  loved ,  for  hopeless  years,  to  grieve  I 
Returning,  could  ho  find  her  here  alone, 
Yet  pass  her  by,  imknowing,  as  unknown? 
All  day  was  she  forsaken,  or  forgot  ? 
Did  Javan  seek  her  at  her  father's  cot  ? 
That  cot  of  old  so  much  his  soul's  delight. 
His  mother's  seem'd  not  fairer  in  his  sight : 
No !  Javan  mocks  me ;  none  could  love  so  well, 
So  long,  so  painfully, — and  never  toll." 


"  Lovo  owns  no  law,"  rejoin'd  the  pleading  youth 
ExceiJt  obedience  to  eternal  truth: 
Deep  streams  are  silent ;  from  the  generous  breast, 
The  dearest  feelings  are  the  last  confest : 
Ere  while  I  strove  in  vain  to  break  my  peace, 
N'lvv  I  could  talk  of  love  and  never  cease: 
-  -Still  had  my  trembling  passion  been  conceal'd 
Still  but  in  parables  by  stealth  reveal'd. 
Had  not  thine  instantaneous  presence  wrung. 
By  swift  surprise  the  secret  from  my  tongue. 
Yet  hath  AflTecllon  language  of  her  own, 
And  mine  in  every  thing  but  words  was  shown ; 
In  childhood,  as  the  bird  of  nature  free, 
My  song  v.  as  gladness,  when  I  sung  to  thee : 
In  youth,  whene'er  I  mourn'd  a  bosom  flame. 
And  praised  a  maiden  whom  I  durst  not  name. 
Could ;»t  thou  not  then  my  hidden  thought  divine  ? 
DidsL  thou  not  feel  that  I  was  wholly  thine  ? 
When  for  vain-glory  I  forsook  thee  here, 
Dear  as  thou  wert,  unutterably  dear, 
From  virtue,  truth,  and  innocence  estranged. 
To  thee,  thee  only,  was  my  heart  unchanged ; 
And  as  I  loved  without  a  hope  before. 
Without  a  hope  I  loved  thee  yet  the  more. 
At  length,  when,  weary  of  the  ways  of  men, 
Refuge  I  sought  in  this  maternal  glen. 
Thy  sweet  remembrance  drew  me  from  afar. 
And  Zillah's  beauty  was  my  leading  star. 
Here  when  I  found  thee,  fear  itself  grew  bold, 
Methought  my  tale  of  love  already  told  ; 
But  soon  thine  eyes  the  dream  of  folly  broke, 
And  I  from  bliss,  as  they  from  slumber,  woke ; 
My  heart,  my  tongue,  were  chill'd  to  instant  stone, 
I  durst  not  speak  thy  name,  nor  give  my  own. 
When  thou  wert  vanish'd,  horror  and  afl^right 
Seized  me,  my  sins  uprose  before  my  sight ; 
Like  fiends  they  rush'd  upon  me ;  but  Despair 
Wrung  from  expiring  Faith  a  broken  prayer ; 
Strength  came ;  the  path  to  Enoch's  bow  er  I  trod 
He  saw  me,  met  me,  led  me  back  to  God. 
O  Zillah !  while  I  sought  my  Maker's  grace. 
And  tlesh  and  spirit  fail'dlbefore  His  face. 
Thy  tempting  image  from  my  breast  I  drove. 
It  was  no  season  then  for  earthly  love." — 

"  For  earthly  love  it  is  no  season  now," 
Exclaim'd  the  maiden  with  reproachful  brow, 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


37 


And  eyes  through  tears  of  tenderness  that  shone, 

And  voice,  half  peace,  half  anger,  in  its  tone : 

"  Freely  thy  past  unkindness  I  forgive, 

Content  to  perish  here,  so  Javan  live ; 

The  tvrant's  menace  to  our  tribe  we  know ; 

The  Patriarchs  never  seek,  nor  shun  a  foe : 

Thou,  while   thou  mayest,  from   swift   destruction 

fly; 

I  and  my  father's  house  resolve  to  die." 

"  With  thee  and  with  thy  father's  house,  to  bear 
Death  or  captivity,  is  Javan's  prayer  ; 
Remorse  for  ever  be  the  recreant's  lot : 
If  I  forsake  thee'  now,  I  love  thee  not." 

.    Thus  while  he  vow'd,  a  gentle  answer  sprung 
To  Zillah's  lips,  but  died  upon  her  tongue  ; 
Trembling  she  turn'd,  and  hasten'd  to  the  rock. 
Beyond  those  woods,  that  hid  her  folded  flock, 
Whose  bleatings  reach'd  her  ear,  with  loud  complaint 
"Of  her  delay ;  she  loosed  them  from  restraint ; 
Then,  bounding  headlong  forth,  with  antic  glee. 
They  roam'd  in  all  the  joy  of  liberty. 
Javan  beside  her  walk'd  as  in  a  dream, 
Nor  more  of  love  renew'd  the  fruitless  theme. 

I       Forthwith   from  home   to  home   throughout  the 

n  glen, 

I  The  friends  whom  once  he  knew  he  sought  again  ; 
i  Each  haird  the  stranger  welcome  at  his  board, 
I  As  lost  but  found,  as  dead  to  life  restored. 
}  From  Eden's  camp  no  tidings  came,  the  day 
j  In  awful  expectation  pass'd  away. 
:  At  eve  his  harp  the  flind  enthusiast  strung, 
'  On  Adam's  mount,  and  to  the  Patriarchs  sung ; 
'.  While  youth  and  age,  an  eager  throng,  admire 
I  The  mingling  music  of  the  voice  and  lyre. 

I      "  I  love  thee.  Twilight !  as  thy  shadows  roll, 
;  The  calm  of  evening  steals  upon  my  soul, 
Sublimely  tender,  solemnly  serene, 
Still  as  the  hour,  enchanting  as  the  scene. 
;  I  love  thee.  Twilight  I  for  thy  gleams  impart 
i  Their  dear,  their  dying  influence  to  my  heart,. 
i  When  o'er  the  harp  of  thought  thy  passing  wind 
I  Awakens  all  the  music  of  the  mind, 
'■  And  Joy  and  Sorrow,  as  the  spirit  burns, 

And  Hope  and  Memory  sweep  the  chords  by  turns, 
1  While  Contemplation,  on  seraphic  wings, 
'  Mounts  with  the  flame  of  sacrifice,  and  sings. 
I  Twilight !  1  love  thee ;  let  thy  glooms  increase 

Till  every  feehng,  every  pulse  is  peace  : 
I  Slow  from  the  sky  the  light  of  day  declines. 
Clearer  within  the  dawn  of  glory  shines, 
Revealing,  in  the  hour  of  Nature's  rest, 
A  world  of  wonders  in  the  poet's  breast : 
Deeper,  O  twilight !  then  thy  shadows  roll. 
An  awful  \ision  opens  on  my  soul. 

"  On  such  an  evening,  so  divinely  calm. 
The  woods  all  melody,  the  breezes  balm, 
DowTi  in  a  vale,  where  lucid  waters  stray'd. 
And  mountain-cedars  stretch'd  their  dow  nward  shade, 
Jubal,  the  Prince  of  Song  (in  youth  unknown), 
Retired  to  commune  with  his  harp  alone ; 
For  still  he  nursed  it,  like  a  secret  thought. 
Long  cherish'd,  and  to  late  perfection  wrought, — 

T2 


And  still,  with  cunning  hand  and  curious  ear, 

Enrich'd,  ennobled,  and  enlarged  its  sphere. 

Till  he  had  compass'd,  in  that  magic  round, 

A  soul  of  harmony,  a  heaven  of  sound. 

Then  sang  the  minstrel,  in  his  laurel  bower. 

Of  Nature's  origin,  and  Music's  power : 

— '  He  spake,  and  it  was  done  ; — Eternal  Night, 

At  God's  command,  awaken'd  into  light ; 

He  called  the  elements,  Earth,  Ocean,  Air, 

He  call'd  them  when  they  were  not,  and  they  were . 

He  look'd  through  space,  and  kindling  o'er  the  sky. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  came  forth  to  meet  his  eye : 

His  spirit  moved  upon  the  desert  earth, 

And  sudden  life  through  all  tilings  swarm'd  to  birth 

Man  from  the  dust  he  raised  to  rule  the  whole  ; 

He  breathed,  and  man  became  a  living  soul : 

Through  Eden's  groves  the  Lord  of  Nature  trod. 

Upright  and  pure,  the  image  of  his  God. 

Thus  were  the  heavens  and  all  their  host  display'd, 

In  wisdom  thus  were  earth's  foundations  laid : 

The  glorious  scene  a  holy  sabbath  closed ; 

Amidst  his  works  the  Omnipotent  reposed  ; 

And  while  he  view'd,  and  bless'd  them  from  his 

seat, 
All  worlds,  all  beings,  worshipp'd  at  his  feet: 
The  morning  stars  in  choral  concert  sang, 
The  rolling  deep  with  hallelujahs  rang. 
Adoring  angels  from  their  orbs  rejoice. 
The  voice  of  music  was  Creation's  voice. 

" '  Alone  along  the  lyre  of  Nature  sigh'd 
The  master-chord,  to  which  no  chord  replied : 
For  INIan,  while  bliss  and  beauty  reign'd  around, 
For  man  alone,  no  fellowship  was  found. 
No  fond  companion,  in  whose  dearer  breast 
His  heart,  repining  in  his  ov^n,  might  rest  ; 
For,  born  to  love,  the  heart  delights  to  roam, 
A  kindred  bosom  is  its  happiest  home. 
On  earth's  green  lap,  the  Father  of  mankind. 
In  mild  dejection,  thoughtfully  reclined  ; 
Soft  o'er  his  eyes  a  sealing  slumber  crept. 
And  Fancy  soothed  him  while  Reflection  slept. 
Then  God — who  thus  would  make  his  counsel  known, 
Counsel  that  will'd  not  man  to  dwell  alone. 
Created  Woman  with  a  smile  of  grace, 
And  left  the  smile  that  made  her  on  her  face. 
The  Patriarch's  eyelids  open'd  on  his  bride, 
— The  morn  of  beauty  risen  from  his  side ! 
He  gazed  with  new-born  rapture  on  her  charms. 
And  Love's  first  whispers  won  her  to  his  arms. 
Then,  tuned  to  all  the  chords  supremely  sweet 
Exulting  Nature  found  her  lyre  complete. 
And  from  the  key  of  each  harmonious  sphere. 
Struck  music  worthy  of  her  Maker's  ear ' 

"  Here  Jubal  paused  ;  for  grim  before  him  lay, 
Couch'd  like  a  lion  watcliing  for  his  prey, 
With  blood-red  eye  of  fascinating  firef 
Fix'd,  like  the  gazing  serpent's,  on  the  lyre. 
An  awful  form,  that  through  the  gloom  appear'd. 
Half  brute,  half  human;  whose  terrific  beard, 
And  hoary  flakes  of  long  dishevell'd  hair, 
Like  eagle's  plumage  ruffled  by  the  air, 
Veil'd  a  sad  wreck  of  grandeur  and  of  grace. 
Limbs  torn  and  wounded,  a  majestic  face 
Deep-plowed  by  Time,  and  ghastly  pale  with  woea, 
That  goaded  till  remorse  to  madness  rose  ; 

221 


38 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Haunted  by  phantoms,  he  had  fled  his  liome, 

With  savage  beasts  in  sohtude  to  roam ; 

Wild  as  the  waves,  and  v^andering  as  the  wind, 

No  art  could  tame  him,  and  no  chains  could  bind : 

Already  seven  disastrous  years  had  shed 

Mildew  and  blast  on  his  unshelter'd  head  ; 

His  brain  was  smitten  by  the  sun  at  noon. 

His  heart  was  wither'd  by  the  cold  nighl  moon. 

"  'T  was  Cain,  the  sire  of  nations  : — -Jubal  knew 
His  kindred  looks,  and  tremblingly  withdrew ; 
He,  darting  like  the  blaze  of  sudden  fire, 
Leap'd  o'er  the  space  between,  and  grasp'd  the  lyre  : 
Sooner  with  life  the  struggling  bard  would  part, 
And,  ere  the  fiend  could  tear  it  from  his  heart. 
He  hurl'd  his  hand,  with  one  tremendous  stroke. 
O'er  all  the  strings ;  whence  in  a  whirlwind  broke 
Such  tones  of  terror,  dissonance,  despair, 
As  till  that  hour  had  never  jarr'd  in  air. 
Astonish'd  into  marble  at  the  shock, 
Backward  stood  Cain,  unconscious  as  a  rock. 
Cold,  breathless,  motionless  through  all  his  frame : 
But  soon  his  visage  qnicken'd  into  flame, 
When  Jubal's  hand  the  crashing  jargon  changed 
To  melting  harmony,  and  nimbly  ranged 
From  chord  to  chord,  ascending  sweet  and  clear, 
Then  rolling  down  in  thunder  on  the  ear ; 
With  power  the  pulse  of  anguish  to  restrain, 
And  charm  the  evil  spirit  from  the  brain. 

"Slowly  recovering  from  that  trance  profound, 
Bewilder'd,  touch'd,  transported  with  the  sound, 
Cain  view'd  himself,  the  bard,  the  earth,  the  sky. 
While  wonder  flash'd  and  faded  in  his  eye, 
And  reason,  by  alternate  frenzy  crost. 
Now  seem'd  restored,  and  now  for  ever  lost. 
So  shines  the  moon,  by  glimpses,  through  her  shrouds. 
When  windy  Darkness  rides  upon  the  clouds, 
Till  through  the  blue,  serene,  and  silent  night. 
She  reigns  in  full  tranquillity  of  light. 
Jubal,  with  eager  hope,  beheld  the  chase 
Of  strange  emotions  hurrying  o'er  his  face. 
And  waked  his  noblest  numbers  to  control 
The  tide  and  tempest  of  the  maniac's  soul  : 
Through  many  a  maze  of  melody  they  flew, 
They  rose  like  incense,  they  distill'd  like  dew, 
Pour'd  through  the  suflTerer's  breast  delicious  balm. 
And  soothed  remembrance  till  remorse  grew  calm. 
Till  Cain  forsook  the  solitary  wild, 
Led  by  the  minstrel  like  a  weaned  child. 
Oh !  had  you  seen  him  to  his  home  restored. 
How  young  and  old  ran  forth  to  meet  their  lord ; 
How  friends  and  kindred  on  his  neck  did  fall. 
Weeping  aloud,  while  Cain  outwept  them  all : 
But  hush! — thenceforward,  when  recoiling  care 
Lower'd  on  his  brow,  and  sadden'd  to  despair, 
The  lyre  of  Jiibal,  with  divinest  art, 
Repelfd  the  demon,  and  revived  his  heart. 
Thus  Song,  the  breath  of  heaven,  had   power  to 

bind 
In  chains  of  harmony  the  mightiest  mind ; 
Thus  Music's  empire  in  the  soul  began, 
The  first-born  Poet  ruled  the  first-born  Man." 

While  Javan  sung,  the  shadows  fell  around, 
The  moving  glow-worm  brighten' d  on  the  ground, 


He  ceased :  the  mute  assembly  rose  in  tears; 
Delight  and  wonder  were  chastised  with  fears; 
That  heavenly  harmony,  unheard  before. 
Awoke  the  feeling, — "  Who  shall  hear  it  more  ?" 
The  sun  had  set  in  glorj*  on  their  sight, 
For  them  in  vain  might  morn  restore  the  light : 
Though  self-dcvotcd,  through  each  mortal  frame, 
At  thought  of  Death,  a  cold  sick  shuddering  carne. 
Nature's  uifirmity  ; — but  faith  was  given. 
The  flame  that  lift.s  the  sacrifice  to  Heaven : 
Through  doubt  and  darkness  then  beyond  the  skies 
Eternal  prospects  open'd  on  their  eyes ; 
Already  seem'd  the  immortal  spirit  free, 
And  Death  was  swallowed  up  in  victory. 


CANTO  VII. 


The  Patriarchs  and  their  Families  carried  away  cap- 
tive by  a  Detachment  from  the  Army  of  the  In- 
vaders,— The  tomb  of  Abel :  his  Murder  by  Cain 
described. — The  Origin  of  the  Giants:  the  Infancy 
and  early  Adventures  of  their  King :  the  Leader 
of  their  Host  encamped  in  Eden. 


The  flocks  and  herds  throughout  the  glen  reposed-, 
Xo  human  eyelid  there  in  slumber  closed ; 
None,  save  the  infant's  on  the  mother's  breast ; — 
With  arms  of  love  caressing  and  carest. 
She,  while  her  elder  ofl^spring  round  her  clung. 
Each  eve  intent  on  hers  and  mute  each  tongue. 
The  voice  of  Death  in  every  murmur  heard. 
And  felt  his  touch  in  every  limb  that  stirr'd. 

At  midnight,  down  the  forest  hills,  a  train 
Of  eager  warriors  from  the  host  of  Cain, 
Burst  on  the  stillness  of  the  scene : — they  spread 
In  bands,  to  clutch  the  victims  ere  they  fled; 
Of  flight  unmindful,  at  their  summons,  rose 
Those  victims,  meekly  yielding  to  their  foes ; 
Though  woman  wept  to  leave  her  home  behind. 
The  weak  were  comforted,  the  strong  resign'd, 
And  ere  the  moon  descending  o'er  the  vale. 
Grew,  at  the  bright  approach  of  morning,  pale. 
Collected  thus,  the  patriarchal  clan, 
With  strenglhen'd  confidence,  their  march  began, 
Since  not  in  ashes  were  their  dwellings  laid. 
And  death,  though  threaten'd  still,  was  still  delay'd. 
Struck  with  their  fearless  innocence,  they  saw 
Their  fierce  assailants  check'd  with  sacred  awe ; 
The  foe  became  a  phalanx  of  defence, 
And  brought  them,  like  a  guard  of  Angels,  thence. 
A  vista-path,  that  through  the  forest  led 
(By  Javan  shunn'd  when  from  the  camp  he  fled). 
The  pilgrims  track'd  till  on  the  mountain's  height 
They  met  the  sun  new  ris'n,  in  glorious  light ; 
Empurpled  mists  along  the  landscape  roU'd, 
And  all  the  orient  flamed  with  clouds  of  gold. 

Here,  while  they  halted,  on  their  knees  they  raise 
To  God  the  sacrifice  of  prayer  and  praise  ; 
— Glory  to  Thee,  for  every  blessing  shed,  ■ 

In  days  of  peace,  on  our  protected  head ; 
Glory  to  Thee,  for  fortitude  to  bear  j 

The  wrath  of  man,  rejoicing  o'er  despair ;  ' 

222 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


39 


rlory  to  Thee,  whatever  ill  befall, 

■'or  faith  on  thy  victorious  name  to  call ; 

Thine  own  eternal  purposes  fulfil ; 

Ve  come,  O  God !  to  suffer  all  thy  will." 

Refresh'd  and  rested,  on  their  course  they  went, 
•]re  the  clouds  melted  from  the  firmament ; 
)dors  abroad  the  winds  of  morning  breathe, 
^nd  fresh  with  dew  the  herbage  sprang  beneath  ; 
)own  from  the  hills,  that  gently  sloped  away 
^'o  the  broad  river  shining  into  day, 
;'hey  pass'd,  along  the  brink  the  path  they  kept, 
Vhere  high  aloof  o'er-arching  willows  wept, 
Vhose  silvery  foliage  glisten'd  in  the  beam, 
vnd  floating  shadows  fringed  the  chequer'd  stream. 

Adjacent  rose  a  myrtle-planted  mound, 
Vhose  spiry  top  a  granite  fragment  crown'd  ; 
'iiictured  with  many-color'd  moss,  the  stone, 
lich  as  a  cloud  of  summer  evening,  shone 
miidst  encircling  verdure,  that  array'd 
'he  beauteous  hillock  with  a  cope  of  shade. 

"  Javan  ! "  said  Enoch,  "  on  this  spot  began 
'he  fatal  curse  ; — man  perish'd  here  by  man  : 
'ho  earliest  death  a  son  of  Adam  died 
Vas  murder,  and  that  murder  fratricide ! 
[ere  iVbel  fell  a  corse  along  this  shore ; 
[ere  Cain's  recoiling  footsteps  reek'd  with  gore : 
[orror  upraised  his  locks,  unloosed  his  knees  ; 
ie  heard  a  voice  ;  he  hid  among  the  trees  ; 
-'  Where  is  thy  brother?' — From  the  whirlwind  came 
'he  voice  of  God,  amidst  enfolding  flame  : 
-'  Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?'  hoarse  and  low, 
ain  mutter'd  from  the  copse, — '  that  I  should  know  ?' 
-'  What  hast  thou  done  ? — For  vengeance  to  the  slues, 
.0!  from  the  dust  the  blood  of  Abel  cries: 
urst  from  the  earth  that  drank  his  blood,  with  toil 
'liine  hand  shall  plow  in  vain  her  barren  soil ; 
n  exile  and  a  wanderer  thou  shalt  be  ; 
.  brother's  eye  shall  never  look  on  thee.' — 

'•  The  shuddering  culprit  answer'd  in  despair, 
-'  Greater  the  punishment  than  flesh  can  bear.' 
-'  A^et  shalt  thou  bear  it ;  on  thy  brow  reveal'd, 
'hus  be  thy  sentence  and  thy  safeguard  seal'd. 
ilently,  swiftly  as  the  lightning's  blast, 
1.  hand  of  fire  athwart  his  temples  pass'd  ; 
[e  ran,  as  in  the  terror  of  a  dream, 
'0  quench  his  burning  anguish  in  the  stream; 
■  lit.  bending  o'er  the  brink,  the  swelling  wave 
jlack  to  the  eye  his  branded  visage  gave ; 
jiS  soon  on  murder'd  Abel  durst  he  look ; 
I'et  power  to  fly  his  palsied  limbs  forsook  ; 
'here,  turn'd  to  stone  for  his  presumptuous  crime, 
x  monument  of  wrath  to  latest  time, 
light  Cain  have  stood  ;  but  Mercy  raised  his  head 
;n  prayer  for  help, — his  strength  return'd, — he  fled, 
fhat  mount  of  myrtles,  o'er  their  favorite  child, 
Pve  planted,  and  the  hand  of  Adam  piled  ; 
'"on  mossy  stone,  above  his  ashes  raised, 
.'lis  altar  once,  with  Abel's  offering  blazed, 
Vhen  God  well  pleased  beheld  the  flames  arise, 
md  smiled  acceptance  on  the  sacrifice." 

Enoch  to  Javan,  walking  at  his  side, 
,^hus  held  discourse  apart :  the  youth  replied  ; 


"  Relieved  from  toil,  though  Cain  is  gone  to  rest, 
And  the  turf  flowers  on  his  disburthen'd  breast. 
Amongst  his  race  the  murdering  spirit  reigns, 
But  riots  fiercest  in  the  giants'  veins. 
— Sprung  from  false  leagues,  when  monstrous  love 

combined 
The  sons  of  God  and  daughters  of  mankind, 
Self-styled  the  progeny  of  Heaven  and  earth, 
Eden  first  gave  the  world's  oppressors  birth  ; 
Thence,  far  away,  beneath  the  rising  moon, 
Or  where  the  shadow  vanishes  at  noon. 
The  adulterous  mothers  from  the  sires  withdrew ; 
— Nurst  in  luxuriant  climes,  their  offspring  grew; 
Till,  as  in  stature  o'er  mankind  they  tower'd. 
And  giant-strength  all  mortal  strength  o'erpower'd. 
To  Heaven  the  proud  blasphemers  raised  their  eyes, 
And  scorn'd  the  tardy  vengeance  of  the  skies : 
On  earth  invincible,  they  sternly  broke 
Love's  willing  bonds,  and  Nature's  kindred  yoke : 
Mad  for  dominion,  with  remorseless  sway, 
Compell'd  their  reptile-brethren  to  obey. 
And  doom'd  their  human  herds,  with  thankless  toil, 
Like  brutes,  to  grow  and  perish  on  the  soil. 
Their  sole  inheritance,  through  lingering  years, 
The  bread  of  misery  and  the  cup  of  tears. 
The  tasks  of  oxen,  with  the  hire  of  slaves, 
Dishonor'd  lives,  and  desecrated  graves. 

"  When  war,  that  self-inflicted  scourge  of  man. 
His  boldest  crime  and  bitterest  curse, — began  ; 
As  lions  fierce,  as  forest-cedars  tall. 
And  terrible  as  torrents  in  their  fall, 
Headlong  from  rocks,  through  vales  and  vineyards 

hurl'd. 
These  men  of  prey  laid  waste  the  eastern  world. 
They  taught  their  tributary  hordes  to  wield 
The  sword,  red-flaming,  through  the   death-strown 

field. 
With  strenuous  arm  the  nprooted  rock  to  throw,    / 
Glance  the  light  arrow  from  the  bounding  bow, 
Whirl  the  broad  shield  to  meet  the  darted  stroke, 
And  stand  to  combat,  like  the  unyielding  oak. 
Then  eye  from  eye  with  fell  suspicion  turn'd. 
In  kindred  breasts  unnatural  hatred  burn'd  I 
Brother  met  brother  in  the  lists  of  strife. 
The  son  lay  lurking  for  the  father's  life ; 
W^ith  rabid  instinct,  men  who  never  knew 
Each  other's  face  before,  each  other  slew  ; 
All  tribes,  all  nations  learn'd  the  fatal  art. 
And  every  hand  was  arm'd  to  pierce  a  heart 
Nor  man  alone  the  giants'  might  subdued  ; 
— The  camel,  wean'd  from  quiet  solitude. 
Grazed  round  their  camps,  or  slow  along  the  road, 
'Midst  marching  legions,  bore  the  servile  load. 
With  flying  forelock  and  dishevell'd  mane, 
They  caught  the  wild  steed  prancing  o'er  the  plain 
For  war  or  pastime  rein'd  his  fiery  force ; 
Fleet  as  the  wind  he  stretch'd  along  the  course. 
Or  loudly  neighing  at  the  trumpet's  sound. 
With  hoofs  of  thunder  smote  the  indented  ground- 
The  enormous  elephant  obey'd  their  wdl. 
And.  tamed  to  cruelty  with  direst  skill, 
Roar'd  for  the  battle,  when  he  felt  the  goad. 
And  his  proud  lord  his  sinewy  neck  bestrode. 
Through  crashing  ranks  resistless  havoc  bore. 
And  writhed  his  trunk,  and  bathed  his  tusks  in  gore 

223 


40 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  Thus  while  the  giants  trampled  friends  and  foes, 
Amongst  their  tribe  a  mighty  chieftain  rose ; 
His  birth  mysterious,  but  traditions  tell 
What  strange  events  his  infancy  befell. 

"  A  goat-herd  fed  his  flock  on  many  a  steep, 
Where  Eden's  rivers  swell  the  southern  deep  ; 
A  melancholy  man,  who  dwelt  alone, 
Yet  far  abroad  his  evil  fame  was  known, 
The  first  of  woman  born,  that  might  presume 
To  wake  the  dead  bones  mouldering  in  the  tomb, 
And,  from  the  gulf  of  uncreated  night, 
Call  phantoms  of  futurit)'  to  light. 
'T  was  said  his  voice  could  stay  the  falling  flood, 
.  Eclipse  the  sun,  and  turn  the  moon  to  blood, 
Roll  back  the  planets  on  their  golden  cars. 
And  from  the  firmament  unfix  the  stars. 
Spirits  of  fire  and  air,  of  sea  and  land, 
Came  at  his  call,  and  flew  at  his  command ; 
His  spells  so.  potent,  that  his  changing  breath 
Open'd  or  shut  the  gates  of  life  and  death. 
O'er  Nature's  powers  he  claim'd  supreme  control, 
And  held  communion  with  all  X-iture's  soul : 
The  name  and  place  of  every  Kerb  he  knew, 
Its  healing  balsam,  or  pernici'ius  dew: 
The  meanest  reptile,  and  the  noblest  birth 
Of  ocean's  caverns,  or  the  living  earth, 
Obey'd  his  mandate : — lord  of  all  the  rest, 
Man  more  than  all  his  hidden  art  confess'd, 
Cringed  to  his  face,  cf.nsulted,  and  revered 
His  oracles, — detested  him,  and  fear'd. 

"  Once  by  the  river,  in  a  waking  dream. 
He  stood  to  watrh  the  ever-running  stream, 
In  which,  reflet  ted  upward  to  his  eyes, 
He  giddily  lonk'd  down  upon  the  skies, 
For  thus  he  feign'd,  in  his  ecstatic  mood, 
To  summon  divination  from  the  flood. 
His  steady  new  a  floating  object  cross'd ; 
His  eye  piirsued  it  till  the  sight  was  lost. — 
An  outcast  infant  in  a  fragile  bark! 
The  river  whirl'd  the  willow-woven  ark 
Down  tovv'rds  the  deep :  the  tide  returning  bore 
The  little  voyager  unharm'd  to  shore: 
Him  in  his  cradle-ship  securely  bound 
With  SAvathing  skins,  at  eve  the  goat-herd  found. 
Nurst  by  that  foster-sire,  austere  and  rude, 
'Midh>  rocks  and  glens,  in  savage  solitude, 
Among  the  kids,  the  rescued  foundling  grew. 
Nutrition  from  whose  shaggy  dams  he  drew, 
Till  baby-curls  his  broader  temples  crown'd. 
And  torrid  suns  his  flexile  limbs  embrown'd : 
Then  as  he  sprang  from  green  to  florid  age. 
And  rose  to  giant-stature,  stage  by  stage, 
He  roam'd  the  valle\'S  with  his  browsing  flock. 
And  leapt  in  joy  of  youth  from  rock  to  rock ; 
Climb  d  the  sharp  precipice's  steepest  breast. 
To  seize  the  eagle  brooding  on  her  nest. 
And  rent  his  way  through  matted  woods,  to  tear 
The  slvulking  panther  from  his  hidden  lair. 
A  trodden  serpent,  horrible  and  vast. 
Sprang  on  the  heedless  rover  as  he  pass'd ; 
Limb  lock'd  o'er  limb,  with  many  a  straitening  fold 
Of  orlis  inextricably  involved,  he  roll'd 
On  earth  in  vengeance,  broke  the  twisted  toils. 
Strangled  the  hissing  fiend,  and  wore  the  spoils. 


With  hardy  exercise,  and  cruel  art, 

To  nerve  the  frame,  and  petrify  the  heart. 

The  wizard  train'd  his  i)upil,  from  a  span, 

To  thrice  the  bulk  and  majesty  of  man. 

His  limbs  were  sinewy  strength:  commanding  grace 

And  dauntless  spirit  sparkled  in  his  face  ; 

His  arm  could  pluck  the  lion  from  his  prey, 

And  hold  the  horn'd  rhinoceros  at  bay ; 

His  feet  o'er  highest  hills  pursue  the  hind, 

Or  tire  the  ostrich  buoyant  on  the  wind. 

"Yet  'twas  the  stripling's  chief  delight  to  brave* 
The  river's  wrath,  and  wrestle  with  the  wave ;  -' 
When  torrent  rains  had  swoln  the  furious  tide,  '' 

Light  on  the  foamy  surge  he  loved  to  ride ; 
When  calm  and  clear  the  stream  was  wont  to  flow, 
Fearless  he  dived  to  search  the  caves  below. 
His  childhood's  story,  often  told,  had  wrought 
Sublimest  hopes  in  his  aspiring  thought. 
— Once  on  a  cedar,  from  its  mountain-throne 
Pluck'd  by  the  tempest,  forth  he  sail'd  alone, 
And  reach'd  the  gulf: — with  eye  of  eager  fire. 
And  flushing  cheek,  he  watch'd  the  shores  retire. 
Till  sky  and  water  wide  around  were  spread ; 
— Straight  to  the  sun  he  thought  his  voyage  led. 
With  shouts  of  transport  hail'd  its  setting  light. 
And  follow'd  all  the  long  and  lonely  night : 
But  ere  the  morning-star  expired,  he  found 
His  stranded  bark  once  more  on  earthly  ground. 
Tears,  wrung  from  secret  shame,  suflf'used  )iis  eyes 
When  in  the  east  he  saw  the  sun  arise ; 
Pride  quickly  check'd  them  : — young  ambition  bam'd 
For  bolder  enterprise,  as  he  return'd. 

"  Through  snares  and  deaths  pursuing  fame  and 
power, 
He  scorn'd  his  flock  from  that  adventurous  hour, 
And,  leagued  with  monsters  of  congenial  birth, 
Began  to  scourge  and  subjugate  the  earth. 
Meanwhile  the  sons  of  Cain,  who  till'd  the  soil. 
By  noble  arts  had  learn'd  to  lighten  toil ; 
Wisely  their  scattered  kno^^  ledge  he  combined  ; 
Yet  had  an  hundred  years  matured  his  mind. 
Ere  with  the  strength  that  laid  the  forest  low. 
And  sldll  that  made  the  iron  furnace  glow. 
His  genius  launch'd  the  keel,  and  sway'd  the  helm 
(His  throne  and  sceptre  on  the  wat'ry  realm), 
Wliile  from  the  tent  of  his  expanded  sail. 
He  eyed  the  heavens  and  flew  before  the  gale. 
The  first  of  men  whose  courage  knew  to  guide 
The  bounding  ^  essel  through  the  refluent  tide. 
Then  swore  the  Giant,  in  his  pride  of  soul, 
To  range  the  universe  from  pole  to  pole. 
Rule  the  remotest  nations  with  his  nod. 
To  live  a  hero,  and- to  die  a  god. 

"  This  is  the  king  that  wars  in  Eden  : — now, 
Fulfill'd  at  length  he  deems  his  early  vow ; 
His  foot  hath  overrun  the  world, — his  hand 
Smitten  to  dust  the  pride  of  ever\'  land  : 
The  Patriarchs  last,  beneath  his  impious  rod. 
He  dooms  to  perish  or  abjure  their  God. 
— O  God  of  truth !  rebuke  the  tyrant's  rage. 
And  save  the  remnant  of  thine  heritage." 

When  Javan  ceased,  they  stood  upon  the  height 
Where  first  he  rested  on  liis  lonely  flight, 

224 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


Whence  to  the  sacred  mountain  far  away, 

The  land  of  Eden  in  perspective  lav. 

*Twas  noon; — they  tarried  there,  till  milder  hours 

Woke  with  light  airs  the  breath  of  evening  flowers 


CANTO  vin. 


The  Scene  changes  to  a  Mountain,  on  the  Summit  of 
which,  beneath  the  Shade  of  ancient  Trees,  the 
Giants  are  assembled  round  their  King.  A  Minstrel 
sings  the  Monarch's  Praises,  and  describes  the 
Destruction  of  the  Remnant  of  the  Force  of  his 
enemies,  in  an  Assault,  by  Land  and  Water,  on 
their  Encampment,  between  the  Forest  on  the 
eastern  Plain  of  Eden  and  the  River  to  the  West. 
The  Captive  Patriarchs  are  presented  before  the 
King  and  his  Chieftains. 


"  There  is  a  living  spirit  in  the  Lyre, 
A  breath  of  music  and  a  soul  of  fire ; 
It  speaks  a  language,  to  the  world  unknown ; 
It  speaks  that  language  to  the  Bard  alone ; 
While  warbled  symphonies  entrance  his  ears, 
That  spirit's  voice  in  every  tone  he  hears : 
'Tis  his  the  mystic  meaning  to  rehearse, 
To  utter  oracles  in  glowing  verse. 
Heroic  themes  from  age  to  age  prolong. 
And  make  the  dead  in  nature  live  in  song. 
Though  graven  rocks  the  warrior's  deeds  proclaim, 
And  mountains,  hewn  to  statues,  wear  his  name  ; 
Though,  shrined  in  adamant,  his  relics  lie 
Beneath  a  pyramid,  that  scales  the  sky ; 
All  that  the  hand  hath  fashion'd  shall  decay  ; 
All  that  the  eye  admires  shall  pass  away ; 
The  mouldering  rocks,  the  hero's  hope  shall  fail, 
Earthquakes  shall  heave  the  mountains  to  the  vale, 
The  shrine  of  adamant  betray  its  trust, 
And  the  proud  pyramid  resolve  to  dust  : 
The  Lyre  alone  immortal  fame  secures, 
For  Song  alone  through  Nature's  change  endures; — 
Transfused  like  life,  from  breast  to  breast  it  glows. 
From  sire  to  son  by  sure  succession  flows, 
1  Speeds  its  unceasing  flight  from  clime  to  clime. 
Outstripping  Death  upon  rhe  wings  of  Time. 

"  Soul  of  the  Lyre !  whose  magic  power  can  raise 
Inspiring  visions  of  departed  days, 
Or,  with  the  glimpses  of  mysterious  rhyme, 
Dawn  on  the  dreams  of  unawaken'd  Time ; 
Soul  of  the  Lyre !  instruct  thy  bard  to  sing 
The  latest  triumph  of  the  Giant-king, 
Who  sees  this  day  his  orb  of  glory  fill'd : 
— In  what  creative  numbers  shall  I  build. 
With  what  exalted  strains  of  music  crown, 
His  everlasting  pillar  of  renown  ? 
Though,  like  the  rainbow,  by  a  wondrous  birth, 
He  sprang  to  light,  the  joy  of  heaven  and  earth ; 
Though,  like  the  rainbow, — for  he  cannot  die, — 
His  form  shall  pass  unseen  into  the  sky ; 
Say,  shall  the  hero  share  the  coward's  lot. 
Vanish  from  earth,  ingloriously  forgot  ? 
No !  the  divinity  that  rules  the  Lyre, 
And  clothes  these  lips  with  eloquence  of  fire,  j 

29 


Commands  the  song  to  rise  in  quenchless  flame. 
And  light  the  world  for  ever  with  his  lame." 

Thus  on  a  mountain's  venerable  head. 
Where  trees,  coeval  with  creation,  spread 
Their  massy-twisted  branches,  green  and  grey, 
Mature  below,  their  tops  in  dry  decay, 
A  bard  of  Jubal's  lineage  proudly  sung. 
Then  stay'd  awhile  the  raptures  of  his  tongue : 
A  shout  of  horrible  applause,  that  rent 
The  echoing  hills  and  answering  firmament. 
Burst  from  the  Giants, — where  in  barbarous  state, 
Flush'd  with  new  wine,  around  their  king  they  sate 
A  chieftain  each,  who,  on  his  brazen  car. 
Had  led  an  host  of  meaner  men  to  war ; 
And  now  from  recent  fight  on  Eden's  plain. 
Where  fell  their  foes,  in  helpless  conflict  slain, 
Victoriously  return'd,  beneath  the  trees 
They  rest  from  toil,  carousing  at  their  ease. 

Adjacent,  where  the  mountain's  spacious  breast 
Open'd  in  airy  grandeur  to  the  w^est. 
Huge  piles  of  fragrant  cedars,  on  the  ground. 
As  altars  blazed,  while  victims  bled  around. 
To  gods,  whose  worship  vanish'd  with  the  Floods 
— Divinities  of  brass,  and  stone,  and  wood. 
By  man  himself  in  his  own  image  made ; 
The  fond  creator  to  the  creature  pray'd ! 
And  he,  who  from  the  forest  or  the  rock 
Hew'd  the  rough  mass,  adored  the  shapen  block ! 
Then  seem'd  his  flocks  ignoble  in  his  eyes. 
His  choicest  herds  too  mean  for  sacrifice, 
He  pour'd  his  brethren's  blood  upon  the  pyre. 
And  pass'd  his  sons  to  demons  through  the  fire. 

Exalted  o'er  the  vassal  chiefs,  behold 
Their  sovereign,  cast  in  Nature's  mightiest  mould  ; 
Beneath  an  oak,  whose  woven  boughs  display'd 
A  verdant  canopy  of  light  and  shade, 
Throned  on  a  rock  the  Giant-king  appears. 
In  the  full  manhood  of  five  hundred  years ; 
His  robe,  the  spoils  of  lions,  by  his  might 
Dragg'd  from  their  dens,  or  slain  in  chase  or  fight  ; 
His  raven  locks,  unblanch'd  by  withering  Time, 
Amply  dishevell'd  o'er  his  brow  sublime ; 
His  dark  eyes,  flush'd  with  restless  radiance,  gleam 
Like  broken  moonlight  rippling  on  the  stream. 
Grandeur  of  soul,  which  nothing  might  appal, 
And  nothing  satisfy  if  less  than  all. 
Had  stamp'd  upon  his  air,  his  form,  his  face. 
The  character  of  calm  and  awful  grace  ; 
But  direst  cruelty,  by  guile  represt, 
Lurk'd  in  the  dark  volcano  of  his  breast, 
In  silence  brooding,  like  the  secret  power 
That  springs  the  earthquake  at  the  midnight  hour. 

From  Eden's  summit,  with  obdurate  pride, 
Red  from  afar,  the  battle  scene  he  eyed. 
Where  late  he  crUsh'd,  with  one  remorseless  blow, 
The  remnant  of  his  last  and  noblest  foe ; 
At  hand  he  view'd  the  trophies  of  his  toils. 
Herds,  flocks,  and  steeds,  the  world's  collected  spoils 
Below,  his  legions  march'd  in  war  array, 
Unstain'd  with  blood  in  that  unequal  fray : 
— An  himdred  tribes,  whose  sons  their  arms  had  borne 
Without  contention,  from  the  field  at  morn. 
Their  bands  dividing,  when  the  fight  was  won, 
Darken'd  the  region  towards  the  slanting  sun, 

225 


42 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  clouds,  whose  shadows  o'er  the  landscape  sail, 

— While  to  their  camj),  that  fill'd  the  northern  vale, 

A  waving  sea  of  tents,  immensely  spread, 

The  trumpet  summon'd,  and  the  banners  led. 

With  these  a  train  of  captives,  sad  and  slow, 

Moved  to  a  death  of  shame,  or  life  of  woe, 

A  death  on  altars  hateful  to  the  skies, 

Or  life  in  chains,  a  slower  sacrifice. 

Fair  smiled  the  face  of  Nature  ; — all  serene, 

And  lovely,  Evening  tranquillized  the  scene ; 

The  furies  of  the  fight  were  gone  to  rest. 

The  cloudless  sun  grew  broader  down  the  west, 

The  hills  beneath  him  melted  from  the  sight. 

Receding  through  the  heaven  of  purple  light ; 

Along  the  plain  the  maze  of  rivers  roll'd. 

And  verdant  shadows  gleam'd  in  waves  of  gold. 

Thus  while  the  tyrant  cast  his  haughty  eye 
O'er  the  broad  landscape  and  incumbent  sky. 
His  heart  exulting  whisper'd — "  All  is  mine," 
And  heard  a  voice  from  all  things  answer  "Thine.' 
Such  was  the  matchless  chief,  whose  name  of  yore 
Fill'd  the  wide  world  \ — his  name  is  known  no  more 
O  that  for  ever  from  the  rolls  of  fame. 
Like  his,  had  perish'd  every  conqueror's  name ! 
Then  had  mankind  been  spared,  in  after-times. 
Their  greatest  sufferings  and  their  greatest  crimes. 
The  hero  scourges  not  his  age  alone. 
His  curse  to  late  posterity  is  known : 
He  slays  his  thousands  with  his  living  breath. 
His  tens  of  thousands  by  his  fame  in  death. 
Achilles  qnench'd  not  all  his  wrath  on  Greece, 
Through  Homer's  song  its  miseries  never  cease ; 
Like  Phffibns'  shafts,  the  bright  contagion  brings 
Plagues  on  the  people  for  the  feuds  of  kings. 
'T  was  not  in  vain  the  son  of  Philip  sigh'd 
For  worlds  to  conquer, — o'er  the  western  tide. 
His  spirit,  in  the  Spaniard's  form,  o'erthrew 
Realms,  that  the  Macedonian  never  knew. 
The  steel  of  Brutus  struck  not  Caesar  dead ; 
Caesar  in  other  lands  hath  rear'd  his  head, 
Aiid  fought,  of  friends  and  foes,  on  many  a  plain, 
His  millions,  captured,  fugitive,  and  slain  ;  ■ 
Yet  seldom  suffer'd,  where  his  country  died, 
A  Roman  vengeance  for  his  parricide. 

The  sun  was  sunk  ;  the  sacrificial  pyres 
From  smouldering  ashes  breathed  their  last  blue  fires; 
The  smiling  star,  that  lights  the  world  to  rest, 
Walk'd  in  the  rosy  gardens  of  the  west, 
Like  Eve  erewhile  through  Eden's  blooming  bowers, 
A  lovelier  star  amidst  a  heaven  of  flowers. 
Now  in  the  freshness  of  the  falling  shade, 
Again  the  minstrel  to  the  monarcli  play'd. 
— "  Where  is  the  yo?ith  renown'd '. — the  youth  whose 

voice 
Was  wont  to  make  the  listening  camp  rejoice, 
>Vhen  to  his  harp,  in  many  a  peerless  strain, 
He  sang  the  wonders  of  the  Giant's  reign ; 
Oh  where  is  Javan?" — Thus  the  bard  renew'd 
His  lay,  and  with  a  rival's  transport  view'd 
The  cloud  of  sudden  anger,  that  o'ercame 
The  tyrant's  countenance,  at  Javan's  name  ; 
Javan  whof,'3  song  was  once  his  soul's  delight, 
Now  doorr.'d  a  Iraito'  recreant  by  his  flight. 


The  envious  minstrel  smiled  ;  then  boldly  ran 
His  prelude  o'er  the  chords,  and  thus  began : — 

"  'T  was  on  the  morn  that  faithless  Javan  fied, 
lo  yonder  plain  the  king  of  nations  led 
His  countless  hosts,  and  stretch'd  their  wide  array 
Vlong  the  woods,  within  whose  shelter  lay 
The  sons  of  Eden  : ' — these,  with  secret  pride, 
In  ambush  thus  the  invincible  defied  : 
— 'Girt  with  the  forest,  wherefore  should  we  fear? 
The  Giant's  sword  shall  never  reach  us  here : 
Behind,  the  river  rolls  its  deep  defence ; 
The  Giant's  hand  shall  never  pluck  us  hence.' 
Vain  boast  of  fools !  who  to  that  hand  prepare 
For  their  own  lives  the  inevitable  snare  : 
His  legions  smote  the  standards  of  the  wood, 
And  with  her  prostrate  strength  controlfd  the  flood; 
Lopt  off  their  boughs,  and  jointed  beam  to  beam. 
The  pines  and  oaks  were  launch'd  upon  the  stream, 
An  hundred  rafts. — Yet  still  within  a  zone 
Of  tangled  coppices, — a  waste,  o'ergrown 
With  briers  and  thorns, — the  dauntless  victims  lie. 
Scorn  to  surrender,  and  prepare  to  die. 
The  second  sun  went  down ;  the  monarch's  plan 
Was  perfected :  the  dire  assault  began. 

"  Marshall'd  by  twilight,  his  obedient  bands 
Engirt  the  wood,  with  torches  in  their  hands ; 
The  signral  given,  they  shoot  them  through  the  air  ; 
The  blazing  brands  in  rapid  volleys  glare. 
Descending  through  the  gloom  with  spangled  light, 
As  if  the  stars  were  falling  through  tlie  night. 
Along  the  wilher'd  grass  the  wild-fire  flew. 
Higher  and  hotter  with  obstruction  grew  ; 
The  green  wood  hiss'd ;  from  crackling  thickets  broke 
Light  glancing  flame,  and  heavy  rolling  smoke; 
Till  all  the  breadth  of  forest  seem'd  to  rise 
In  raging  conflagration  to  the  skies. 
Fresh  o'er  our  heads  the  winds  propitious  blow. 
But  roll  the  fierce  combustion  on  the  foe. 
Awhile  they  paused,  of  every  hope  bereft, 
Choice  of  destruction  all  their  refuge  left; 
If  from  the  flames  they  fled,  behind  them  lay 
The  river  roaring  to  receive  his  prey ; 
If  through  the  stream  they  sought  the  farther  strand. 
Our  rafts  were  moor'd  to  meet  them  ere  they  land. 
With  triple  death  environ'd  thus  they  stood, 
Till  nearer  peril  drove  them  to  the  flood.  ; 

Safe  on  a  hill,  where  sweetest  moonlight  slept,         t 
As  o"er  the  changing  scene  my  watch  I  kej'l, 
I  heard  their  shrieks  of  agony  ;  I  hear 
Those  shrieks  still  ring  in  my  tormented  ear ;  j 

I  saw  them  leap  the  gulf  with  headlong  fright ;        -, 
O  that  mine  eyes  could  now  forget  that  sight  I 
They  sank  in  multitude  ;  but,  prompt  to  save,  ■ 

Our  warriors  snatch'd  the  stragglers  from  \lie  wave,»  ' 
And  on  the  rafts  a  noble  harvest  bore  c 

Of  rescued  heroes,  captive,  lo  the  shore. 

"One  little  troop  their  lessening  ground  maintain'd  , 
Till  space  to  perish  in  alone  remain'd  ; 
Then  with  a  shout  that  rent  the  echoing  air, 
JMore  like  the  shout  of  victory  than  despair. 
Wedged  in  a  solid  phalanx,  man  by  man,  . 

Right  through  the  scorching  wilderness  they  ran,     ^ 


1  Vide  Canto  I,  p.  23,  and  Ciinto  UI,  p.  ■ 


226 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


43 


Wiiere  half-extinct  the  smouldering  fuel  glow'd, 
A:.  1  levell'd  copses  strew'd  the  open  road. 
riliarm'd  as  spirits  while  they  seem'd  to  pass, 
Tii'iir  lighted  features  flared  like  molten  brass; 
,\  ■  iind  the  flames  in  writhing  volumes  spread, 
T.^varted  their  path,  or  mingled  o'er  their  head; 
E.  ueath  their  feet  the  fires  to  ashes  turn'd, 
B  u  in  their  wake  with  mounting  fury  bum'd. 
Our  host  recoil'd  from  that  amazing  sight ; 
Scarcely  the  king  himself  restrain'd  their  flight; 
TT...  wiih  his  chiefs,  in  brazen  armor,  stood 

loved,  to  meet  the  maniacs  from  the  wood. 

I  as  a  thunder-cloud  their  phalanx  came, 
i  >pht  like  lightning  into  forms  of  flame  ; 
■-      I  as  in  purer  air  their  heads  they  raised 

I  aste  the  breath  of  heaven,  their  garments  blazed ; 
1  blind,  distracted,  weaponless,  j-et  flush'd 
,.  .^l  dreadful  valor,  on  their  foes  they  rush'd; 
T  lO  Giants  met  them  midway  on  the  plain; 
T  was  but  a  struggle  of  a  moment ; — slain, 
T     v  fell ;  their  relics,  to  the  flames  retiim'd, 
.\  ~  '  ifferings  to  the  immortal  gods  were  burn'd  ; 

■  never  did  the  light  of  morning  rise 

u  the  clouds  of  such  a  sacrifice." 

\bruptly  here  the  minstrel  ceased  to  sing, 

i  every  face  was  turn'd  upon  the  king ; 

II.  .  while  the  stoutest  hearts  recoil'd  with  fear, 

A'lil  Giants  trembled  their  own  deeds  (o  hear, 

^"     iijved  and  unrelenting,  in  his  mind 

l.s  of  more  impious  enterprise  design'd  : 
-.    .ire  conception  labor'd  in  his  breast; 
]i  <  eye  was  sternly  pointed  to  the  west, 
\\  here  stood  the  mount  of  Paradise  sublime, 
Whose  guarded  top,  since  man's  presumptuous  crime; 
By  noon,  a  dusky  cloud  appear'd  to  rise, 
3  ::  blazed  a  beacon  through  nocturnal  skies. 
As  .Etna,  view'd  from  ocean  far  away, 
■^hinibers  in  blue  revolving  smoke  by  day, 
fill  darkness,  with  terrific  splendor,  shows 
riie  eternal  fires  that  crest  the  eternal  snow-s;' 
"^0  where  the  cherubim  in  vision  turn'd 
Their  flaming  swords,  the  summit  lower'd  or  burn'd. 
\nd  now,  conspicuous  through  the  twilight  gloom, 
The  glancing  beams  the  distant  hills  illume, 
Ind,  as  the  shadows  deepen  o'er  the  ground, 
scatter  a  red  and  wavering  lustre  round. 

Awhile  the  monarch,  fearlessly  amazed, 
.Vi;h  jealous  anger  on  the  glory  gazed; 
^heady  had  his  arm  in  battle  hurl'd 
lis  thundei-s  round  the  subjugated  world ; 
^rd  of  the  nether  universe,  liis  pride 
Vas  rein'd,  while  Paradise  his  power  defied. 
Vn  upland  isle,  by  meeting  streams  embraced, 
t  touer'd  to  heaven  amidst  a  sandy  waste ; 
jelow,  impenetrable  woods  display'd 
)epths  of  mysterious  solitude  and  shade; 
\bove,  with  adamantine  bulwarks  crown'd, 
/"rimeval  rocks  in  hoary  masses  frown'd  ; 


O'er  all  were  seen  the  cherubim  of  light, 
Like  pillar'd  flames  amidst  the  falling  night , 
So  high  it  rose,  so  bright  the  mountain  shone. 
It  seem"d  the  footstool  of  Jehovah's  throne. 

The  Giant  panted  with  intense  desire 
To  scale  those  heights,  and  storm  the  walls  of  fire : 
His  ardent  soul,  in  ecstasy  of  thought. 
Even  now  with  Michael  and  his  angels  fought, 
And  saw  the  seraphim,  like  meteors,  driven 
Before  his  banners  through  the  gates  of  heaven. 
While  he  secure  the  glorious  garden  trud, 
And  sway'd  his  sceptre  from  the  mount  of  God. 

When  suddenly  the  bard  had  ceased  to  sing. 
While  all  the  chieftains  gazed  upon  their  king, 
Whose  changing  looks  a  rising  storm  bespoke, 
Ere  from  his  lips  the  dread  explosion  broke, 
The  trumpets  soimded,  and  before  his  face 
Were  led  the  captives  of  the  Patriarclas'  race, 
— A  lovely  and  a  venerable  band 
Of  young  and  old,  amidst  their  foes  they  stand  ; 
Unawed  they  see  the  fiery  trial  near; 
They  fear'd  their  God,  and  knew  no  other  fear.* 

To  light  the  dusky  scene,  resplendent  fires, 
Of  pine  and  cedar,  blazed  in  lofty  pyres ; 
While  from  the  east  the  moon  with  doubtful  gleams 
Now  tipt  the  hills,  now  glanced  athwart  the  streams, 
Till,  darting  through  the  clouds  her  beauteous  eye, 
She  open'd  all  the  temple  of  the  sky ; 
The  Giants,  closing  in  a  narrower  ring. 
By  turns  survey 'd  the  prisoners  and  the  Idng. 
Javan  stood  forth  ; — to  all  the  youth  w  as  laiown, 
And  ever}'  eye  was  fix'd  on  him  alone. 


1  Sorge  nel  sen  de  la  Sicilia  aprica 
Monte  superbo  al  cie!o, 
Che  d'atro  incendio  incoronato  ha  il  crine; 
Pparso  i)  tergo  e  di  neve,  e  faUa  arnica 
Lambe  lafiamma  il  gielo, 
E  tra  discreti  ardor  duran  le  brine. — F.  Testi. 


CANTO  IX. 


The  King's  Determination  to  sacrifice  the  Patriarchs 
and  their  Families  to  his  Demon-Gods. — His  Sen- 
tence on  Javan. — Zillah's  Distress. — The  Sorcerer 
pretends  to  declare  the  Secret  of  the  Birth  oi  the 
King,  and  proposes  his  Deification. — Enoch  appears 


A  GLEAM  of  joy,  at  that  expected  sight. 
Shot  o'er  the  monarch's  brow  with  baleful  light : 
"  Behold,"  thought  he,  "  the  great  decisive  hour;" 
Ere  morn,  the  sons  of  God  shall  prove  my  power: 
Offer'd  by  me,  their  blood  shall  be  the  price 
Of  demon-aid  to  conquer  Paradise." 
Thus  w  hile  he  threaten'd,  Javan  caught  his  view, 
And  instantly  his  visage  changed  its  hue; 
Inflamed  with  rage  past  utterance,  he  frovMi'd, 
He  gnash'd  his  teeth,  and  wildly  glared  around. 
As  one  who  saw  a  spectre  in  the  air, 
And  durst  not  look  upon  it,  nor  forbear; 
Siill  on  the  youth,  his  eye,  wherever  cast. 
Abhorrently  return'd,  and  fix'd  at  last : 
"Slaves!  smite  the  traitor;  be  his  limbs  consign'd 
To  flames,  his  ashes  scatter'd  to  the  wind  I " 
He  cried  in  tone  so  vehement,  so  loud, 
Instinctively  recoil'd  the  shuddering  crowd  ; 


1  Je  crains  Dieu,  cher  Abner.  et  n'ai  point  d'autre  crainte 

Racine 

227 


44 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  ere  the  guards  to  seize  their  victim  rush'd, 
The  youth  was  pleading,  every  breath  was  hush'd; 
Pale,  but  undauntedly,  he  faced  his  foes  ; 
Warm  as  he  spoke  his  kindling  spirit  rose  ; 
Well  pleased,  on  him  the  Patriarch-fathers  smiled. 
And  every  mother  loved  him  as  her  child. 

"  Monarch  !  to  thee  no  traitor,  here  I  stand  ; 
These  are  my  brethren,  this  my  native  land ; 
My  native  land,  by  sword  and  fire  consumed. 
My  brethren  captive,  and  to  death  foredoom'd  ; 
To  these  indeed  a  rebel  in  my  youth, 
A  fugitive  apostate  from  the  truth. 
Too  late  repentant,  I  confess  my  crime, 
And  mourn  o'er  lost  irrevocable  time. 
— When  from  thy  camp  by  conscience  urged  to  flee, 
I  plaim'd  no  wrong,  I  laid  no  snare  for  thee  • 
Did  I  provoke  these  sons  of  innocence, 
Against  thine  arms  to  rise,  in  vain  defence  ? 
No ;  I  conjured  them,  ere  this  threaten'd  hour, 
In  sheltering  forests  to  escape  thy  power. 
Firm  in  their  rectitude,  they  scorn'd  to  fly ; 
Thy  foes  they  were  not, — they  resolved  to  die. 
Yet  think  not  thou,  amidst  thy  warlike  bands, 
They  lie  beyond  redemption  in  thine  hands  : 
The  God  in  whom  they  trust  may  help  them  still. 
They  know  he  can  deliver,  and  he  will  : 
Whether  by  life  or  death,  afflicts  them  not. 
On  His  decree,  not  thine,  they  rest  their  lot. 
For  me,  unworthy  with  the  just  to  share 
Death  or  deliverance,  this  is  Javan's  prayer: 
Mercy,  O  God !  to  these  in  life  be  shown, — 
I  die  rejoicing,  if  I  die  alone." 

"Thou  shall  not  die  alone,"  a  voice  replied, 
A  well-known  voice — 't  was  Zillah  at  his  side  ; 
She,  while  he  spake,  with  eagerness  to  hear, 
Step  after  step,  unconsciously  drew  near; 
Her  bosom  with  severe  compunction  wrung. 
Pleased  or  alarm'd,  on  every  word  she  hung. 
He  turn'd  his  face ; — with  agonizing  air. 
In  all  the  desolation  of  despair. 
She  stood ;  her  hands  to  heaven  uplift  and  claspt. 
Then  suddenly  unloosed,  his  arm  she  grasp'd. 
And  thus,  in  wild  apostrophes  of  woe. 
Vented  her  grief  while  tears  refused  to  flow. 

"  Oh,  I  have  wrong'd  thee,  Javan  I — Let  us  be 
Espoused  in  death : — No,  I  will  die  for  thee. 
— Tyrant !  behold  thy  victim  ;  on  my  head 
Be  all  the  bitterness  of  vengeance  shed, 
But  spare  the  innocent;  let  Javan  live. 
Whose  crime  was  love : — Can  Javan  too  forgive 
Liove's  lightest,  fondest  weakness,  maiden  shame, 
—  -It  was  not  pride, — that  hid  my  bosom-flame  ? 
And  wilt  thou  mourn  the  poor  transgressor's  death. 
Who  says,  '  I  love  thee,'  with  her  latest  breath  ? 
And  when  thou  think'st  of  days  and  years  gone  by, 
Will  thoughts  of  Zillah  sometimes  swell  thine  eye  ? 
If  ever  thou  hast  cherish'd  in  thine  heart 
Visions  of  hope  in  which  I  bore  a  part ; 
If  ever  thou  hast  long'd  with  me  to  share 
One  home-born  joy,  one  home-endearing  care  ; 
If  thou  didst  ever  love  me  ; — speak  the  word. 
Which  late  with  feign'd  indifferency  I  heard ; 


Tell  me,  thou  lovest  me  still ; — haste,  Javan,  mark 
How  high  those  rufl^ans  pile  the  fagots, — hark. 
How  the  flames  crackle. — see,  how  fierce  ihey  glares 
Like  fiery  serpents  hissing  through  the  air. 
Farewell ;  I  fear  them  not. — Now  seize  me,  bind 
These  willing  limbs, — ye  cannot  touch  the  mind: 
Unawed,  I  stand  on  Nature's  failing  brink: 
— Nay,  look  not  on  me,  Javan,  lest  I  shrink ; 
Give  me  thy  prayers,  but  turn  &  way  thine  eye, 
That  I  may  lift  my  soul  to  Heaven,  and  die." 

Thus  Zillah  raved  in  passionate  distress, 
Till  frenzy  soften'd  into  tenderness ; 
Sorrow  and  love,  with  intermingling  grace, 
Terror  and  beauty,  lighten'd  o'er  her  face ; 
Her  voice,  her  eye,  in  every  soul  was  felt. 
And  Giant-hearts  were  moved,  unwont  to  melt. 
Javan,  in  wonder,  pity,  and  delight. 
Almost  forgot  his  being  at  the  sight; 
That  bending  form,  those  suppliant  accents,  seem 
The  strange  illusions  of  a  lover's  dream ; 
And  while  she  clung  upon  his  arm,  he  found 
His  limbs,  his  lips,  as  by  enchantment  bound; 
He  dare  not  touch  her,  lest  the  charm  should  break  I 
He  dare  not  move,  lest  he  himself  should  wake.       , 

But  when  she  ceased  to  speak  and  he  to  hear, 
The  silence  startled  him  ; — cold,  shivering  fear        j 
Crept  o'er  his  nerves  ; — in  thought  he  cast  his  eye 
Back  on  the  world,  and  heaved  a  bitter  sigh. 
Thus  from  life's  sweetest  pleasures  to  be  torn. 
Just  when  he  seem'd  to  new  existence  born. 
And  cease  to  feel,  when  feeling  ceased  to  be 
A  fever  of  protracted  misery, 

And  cease  to  love,  when  love  no  more  was  pain :  ^ 
'T  was  but  a  pang  of  transient  weakness  : — "  Vain,( 
Are  all  thy  sorrows,"  falteringly  he  said  ; 
"  Already  I  am  number'd  with  the  dead ; 
But  long  and  blissfully  may  Zillah  live! 
— And  canst  thou  '  Javan's  cruel  scorn '  forgive  ? 
And  wilt  thou  mourn  the  poor  tran.sgressor's  deathi 
Who  says,  'I  love  thee,'  with  his  latest  breath? 
And  when  thou  think'st  of  days  and  years  gone  byi 
Will  thoughts  of  Javan  sometimes  swell  thine  eyr^ 
Ah!  while  I  wither'd  in  thy  chilling  frown, 
'T  was  easy  then  to  lay  life's  burthen  down ; 
When  singly  sentenced  to  these  flames,  my  mind 
Gloried  in  leaving  all  I  loved  behind. 
How  hast  thou  triumph'd  o'er  me  in  this  hour ! 
One  look  has  crush'd  my  soul's  collected  power : 
Thy  scorn  I  might  endure,  thy  pride  defy. 
But  O  thy  kindness  makes  it  hard  to  die ! " 

"Then  we  will  die  together." — "Zillah!  no 
Thou  shalt  not  perish  ;  let  me,  let  me  go ; 
Behold  thy  parents  I  calm  thy  father's  fears : 
Thy  mother  weeps;  canst  thou  resist  her  tears?' 

"  Away  with  folly  !"  in  tremendous  tone, 
Exclaim'd  a  voice  more  horrid  than  the  groan 
Of  famish'd  tiger  leaping  on  his  prey  ; 
— Crouch'd  at  the  monarch's  feet  the  speaker  lay 
But  starting  up,  in  his  ferocious  mien 
That  monarch's  ancient  foster-sire  was  seen. 
The  goat-herd, — he  who  snatch'd  him  from  the  floe 
The  sorcerer  who  nursed  him  up  to  blood  : 

228 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


45 


Who,  still  his  e\i\  genius,  fully  bent 

On  one  bold  purpose,  went  where'er  he  went ; 

That  purpose,  long  in  his  own  bosom  seal'd, 

Ripe  for  fulfilment  now,  he  thus  reveal'd. 

Full  in  the  midst  he  rush'd ;  alarm'd,  aghast. 

Giants  and  captives  trembled  as  he  pass'd, 

For  scarcely  seem'd  he  of  the  sons  of  earth ; 

Unchronicled  the  hour  that  gave  him  birth  ; 

Though  shrunk  his  cheek,  his  temples  deeply  plow'd; 

Keen  was  his  vulture-eye,  his  strength  unbow'd ; 

Swarthy  his  features  ;  venerable  grey, 

His  beard  dishevell'd  o'er  his  bosom  lay : 

Bald  was  his  front ;  but  white  as  snow  behind 

His  ample  locks  were  scatter'd  to  the  wind ; 

Naked  he  stood,  save  round  his  loins  a  zone 

Of  shagged  fur,  and  o'er  his  shoulders  thrown 

A  serpent's  skin,  that  cross'd  his  breast,  and  round 

His  body  thrice  in  glittering  volumes  wound. 

All  gazed  with  horror — deep  unutter'd  thought 
In  every  muscle  of  his  visage  wrought ; 
His  eye,  as  if  his  eye  could  see  the  air. 
Was  fix'd  :  up- writhing  rose  his  horrent  hair  ; 
His  limbs  grew  dislocate,  convulsed  his  frame  ; 
Deep  from  his  chest  mysterious  noises  came ; 
Now  purring,  hissing,  barking,  then  they  swell'd 
To  hideous  dissonance ;  he  shriek'd,  he  yell'd, 
As  if  the  Legion-fiend  his  soul  possess'd. 
And  a  whole  hell  were  worrying  in  his  breast  ; 
Then  down  he  dash'd  himself  on  earth,  and  roll'd 
In  agony,  till  powerless,  stiff,  and  cold. 
With  face  upturn'd  to  Heaven,  and  arras  outspread, 
A  ghastly  spectacle,  he  lay  as  dead  ; 
The  living  too  stood  round  like  forms  of  death, 
And  every  pulse  was  hush'd,  and  every  breath. 

'     Meanwhile  the  wind  arose,  the  clouds  were  driven 
In  wat'ry  masses  through  the  waste  of  Heaven, 
j  The  groaning  woods  foretold  a  tempest  nigh, 
i  And  silent  lightning  skirmish'd  in  the  sky. 

Ere  long  the  wizard  started  from  the  ground, 
■  Giddily  reel'd,  and  look'd  bewilder'd  round. 
Till  on  the  king  he  fix'd  his  hideous  gaze  ; 
Then  rapt  with  ecstacy  and  broad  amaze, 
He  kneel'd  in  adoration,  humbly  bow'd 
His  face  upon  his  hands,  and  cried  aloud  ; 
Yet  so  remote  and  strange  his  accents  fell, 
They  seem'd  the  voice  of  an  invisible : 
— "  Hail  I  king  and  conqueror  of  the  peopled  earth. 
And  more  than  king  and  conqueror !  Kjiovv  thy  birth : 
Thou  art  a  ray  of  uncreated  fire, 
The  sun  himself  is  thy  celestial  sire  ; 
The  moon  thy  mother,  who  to  me  consign'd 
Her  babe  in  secrecy,  to  bless  mankind. 
These  eyes  have  watch'd  thee  rising,  year  by  year. 
More  great,  more  glorious,  in  thine  high  career. 
As  the  young  eagle  plies  his  growing  wings 
In  bounded  flights,  and  sails  in  wider  rings, 
Till  to  the  fountain  of  meridian  day, 
Full  plumed  and  perfected,  tie  soars  away ; 
Thus  have  I  mark'd  thee,  since  thy  course  begun. 
Still  upward  tending  to  thy  sire  the  sun : 
.,  Now  midway  meet  him  ;  from  yon  flaming  height, 
Chase  the  vain  phantoms  of  cherubic  light ; 

U 


There  build  a  tower,  whose  spiral  top  shall  rise, 

Circle  o'er  circle,  lessening  to  the  skies  ; 

The  stars,  thy  brethren,  in  their  spheres  shall  stand 

To  hail  thee  welcome  to  thy  native  land  ; 

The  moon  shall  clasp  thee  in  her  glad  embrace. 

The  sun  behold  his  image  in  thy  face. 

And  call  thee,  as  his  offspring  and  his  heir, 

His  throne,  his  empire,  and  his  orb,  to  share." 

Rising,  and  turning  his  terrific  head. 
That  chill'd  beholders,  thus  the  enchanter  said : 
— "  Prepare,  prepare  the  piles  of  sacrifice. 
The  pow  er  that  rules  on  earth  shall  rule  the  skies  -, 
Hither,  O  chiefs !  the  captive  Patriarchs  bring, 
And  pour  their  blood  an  offering  to  your  king  j 
He,  like  his  sire  the  sun,  in  transient  clouds, 
His  veil'd  divinity  from  mortals  shrouds, 
Too  pure  to  shine  till  these  his  foes  are  slain, 
And  conquer'd  Paradise  hath  crown'd  his  reign. 
Haste,  heap  the  fallen  cedars  on  the  pyres. 
And  give  the  victims  living  to  the  fires : 
Shall  He,  in  whom  they  vainly  trust,  withstand 
Your  sovereign's  wrath,  or  pluck  them  from  his  hand? 
We  dare  him ; — if  He  saves  his  servants  now, 
To  Him  let  every  knee  in  Nature  bow. 

For  He  is  God" at  that  most  awful  name, 

A  spasm  of  horror  wither'd  up  his  frame. 

Even  as  he  stood  and  look'd ; — he  looks,  he  stands, 

With  heaven-defying  front,  and  clenched  hands, 

And  lips  half-open'd,  eager  from  his  breast 

To  bolt  the  blasphemy,  by  force  represt ; 

For  not  in  feign'd  abstraction,  as  before. 

He  practised  foul  deceit  by  damned  lore  ; 

A  frost  was  on  his  nerves,  and  in  his  veins 

A  fire,  consuming  with  infernal  pains ; 

Conscious,  though  motionless,  his  limbs  were  grown , 

Alive  to  suffering,  but  alive  in  stone. 

In  silent  expectation,  sore  amazed. 
The  king  and  chieflains  on  the  sorcerer  gazed ; 
Awhile  no  sound  was  heard,  save  through  the  woods 
The  wind  deep-thundering,  and  the  dashing  floods  • 
At  length,  with  solemn  step,  amidst  the  scene. 
Where  that  false  prophet  show'd  his  frantic  mien. 
Where  lurid  flames  from  green-wood  altars  burn'd, 
Enoch  stood  forth  ; — on  him  all  eyes  were  turn'd ; 
O'er  his  dim  form  and  saintly  visage  fell 
The  light  that  glared  upon  that  priest  of  hell. 
Unutterably  awful  was  his  look  ; 
Through  every  joint  the  Giant-monarch  shook ; 
Shook,  like  Belshazzar,  in  his  festive  hall. 
When  the  hand  wrote  his  judgment  on  the  wall ; ' 
Shook,  Hke  Eliphaz,  with  dissolving  fright,^ 
In  thoughts  amidst  the  visions  of  the  night, 
WTien  as  the  spirit  pass'd  before  his  face,  • 
Nor  limb  nor  lineament  his  eye  could  trace ; 
A  form  of  mystery,  that  chill'd  his  blood, 
Close  at  his  couch,  in  living  terror  stood. 
And  death-like  silence,  till  a  voice  more  drear. 
More  dreadful  than  the  silence,  reach'd  his  eat : 
Thus  from  surrounding  darkness  Enoch  brake. 
And  thus  the  Giant  trembled  while  he  spake. 


1  Dan.  V.  V.  1—31. 


2  Job,  iv,  V.  12—21 

229 


46 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CANTO  X. 


The  Prophecy  of  Enoch  concerning  the  Sorcerer,  the 
King,  and  the  Flood. — Ilis  translation  to  Heaven. 
— The  Conclusion. 


"  The  Lord  is  jealous  : — He,  who  reigns  on  high, 
-Upholds  the  earth,  and  spreads  abroad  the  sky ; 
His  voice  the  moon  and  stars  by  night  obey, 
He  sends  the  sun  his  servant  forth  by  day : 
From  Him  all  beings  came,  on  Him  depend. 
To  Him  return,  their  Author,  Sovereign,  End. 
Who  shall  destroy  when  He  would  save  ?  or  stand, 
When  He  destroys,  the  stroke  of  his  right  hand? 
With  none  his  name  and  power  will  He  divide, 
For  He  is  God,  and  there  is  none  beside. 

"  The  proud  shall  perish : — mark  how  wild  his  air 
In  impotence  of  malice  and  despair ! 
What  frenzy  fires  the  bold  blasphemer's  cheek ! 
He  looks  the  curses  which  he  cannot  speak. 
A  hand  hath  touch'd  him  that  he  once  defied  ; 
Touch'd,  and  for  ever  crush'd  him  in  his  pride  : 
Yet  shall  he  Uve,  despised  as  fear'd  before ; 
The  great  deceiver  shall  deceive  no  more ; 
Children  shall  pluck  the  beard  of  him  whose  arts 
Palsied  the  boldest  hands,  the  stoutest  hearts  ; 
His  vaunted  wisdom  fools  shall  laugh  to  scorn. 
When  muttering  spells,  a  spectacle  forlorn, 
A  drivelling  idiot,  he  shall  fondly  roam 
From  house  to  house,  and  never  find  a  home." 

The  wizard  heard  his  sentence,  nor  remain'd 
A  moment  longer;  from  his  trance  unchain'd. 
He  plunged  into  the  woods  ;^-the  Prophet  then 
Turn'd,  and  took  up  his  parable  again. 

"  The  proud  shall  perish :— monarch  I  know  thy  doom: 
Thy  bones  shall  lack  the  shelter  of  a  tomb ; 
Not  in  the  battle-field  thine  eyes  shall  close. 
Slain  upon  thousands  of  thy  slaughter'd  foes ; 
Not  on  the  throne  of  empire,  nor  the  bed 
Of  weary  Nature,  thou  shalt  bow  thine  head  : 
Death  lurks  in  ambush ;  Death,  without  a  name. 
Shall  pluck  thee  from  thy  pinnacle  of  fame ; 
At  eve,  rejoicing  o'er  thy  finish'd  toil, 
Thy  soul  shall  deem  the  universe  her  spoil ; 
The  dawn  shall  see  thy  carcass  cast  away, 
The  wolves  at  sunrise  slumber  on  (heir  prey. 
Cut  from  the  hving,  whither  dost  thou  go  ? 
Hades  is  moved  to  meet  thee  from  below ; ' 


1  This  passage,  the  reader  will  perceive,  is  an  imitation  of 
some  ver^^es  in  the  fourteenth  Chapter  of  the  Prophecy  of  Isaiah, 
which  are  applied  to  the  fall  of  the  Kins  of  Babylon.  The  fol- 
lowing extract  from  Bishop  Lowih's  note  on  the  original  will 
elucidate  the  paraphrase.  "  The  regions  of  the  Dead  are  laid 
open,  and  Hades  is  represented  as  rousing  up  the  shades  of  the 
departed  monarchs:  they  rise  from  their  thrones  to  meet  the 
King  of  Babylon  at  his  coming  :  and  insult  him  on  his  being  re- 
duced to  the  same  low  state  of  impotence  and  dissolution  with 
themselves.  *****  The  image  of  the  state  of  the  Dead,  or 
the  Infernum  Poeticum  of  the  Hebrews,  is  taken  from  their  cus- 
tom of  burying,  those  at  least  of  the  highest  rank,  in  large  sep- 
ulchral vaults  hewn  in  the  rock  Of  this  kind  of  sepulchres  there 
are  remains  at  Jerusalem  now  extant;  and  some  that  are  said 
to  be  the  sepulchres  of  the  king?  of  Judah.  See  Maundreli,  p. 
76.  You  are  to  form  to  yourself  the  idea  of  an  immense  subter- 
raneous vault,  a  vast  gloomy  cavern,  all  round  the  sides  of 


I 


i 


The  kings  thy  sword  had  slain,  the  mighty  dead, 
Start  from  their  thrones  at  thy  descending  tread ; 
They  ask  in  scorn, — '  Destroyer !  is  it  thus  ? 
Art  thou, — thou  too, — become  like  one  of  us?  ^ 
Torn  from  the  feast  of  music,  wine,  and  mirth,  } 
The  worms  thy  covering,  and  thy  couch  the  earth.) 
How  art  thou  fallen  from  thine  ethereal  height,  ' 
Son  of  the  morning !  sunk  in  endbss  night :  '^ 

How  art  thou  fall'n,  who  saidsi  in  pride  of  soul 
I  will  ascend  above  the  starry  pole. 
Thence  rule  the  adoring  nations  with  my  nod. 
And  set  my  throne  above  the  Mount  of  Cod ! 
Spilt  in  the  dust,  thy  blood  pollutes  the  ground ; 
Sought  by  the  eyes  that  fear'd  thee,  yet  not  found'/ 
Thy  chieftains  pause,  they  turn  thy  relics  o'er,        > 
Then  pass  thee  by, — for  thou  art  known  no  more. 
Hail  to  thine  advent !    Potentate,  in  hell,  '•. 

Unfear'd,  unflatter'd,  undistinguish'd,  dwell ;  \ 

On  earth  thy  fierce  ambition  knew  no  rest, 
A  worm,  a  llame  for  ever  in  thy  breast ; 
Here  feel  the  rage  of  unconsuming  fire,  1 

Intense,  eternal,  impotent  desire  ;  I 

Here  lie,  the  deathless  worm's  unwasting  prey,       ■' 
In  chains  of  darkness  till  the  judgment-dav.'  I 

I 
"  Thus  while  the  dead  thy  fearful  welcome  sin^i 
Thy  living  slaves  bewail  their  vanish'd  king.  ' 

Then,  though  thy  reign  with  infamy  exjnre, 
Fulliird  in  death  shall  be  thy  vain  desire ; 
The  traitors,  reeking  with  thy  blood,  shall  swear 
They  saw  their  sovereign  ravish'd  through  the  air, 
And  point  thy  star  revolving  o'er  the  night, 
A  baleful  comet  with  portentous  light, 
'Midst  clouds  and  storms  denouncing  from  afar 
Famine  and  havoc,  pestilence  and  war. 
Temples,  not  tombs,  thy  monuments  shall  be. 
And  altars  blaze  on  hills  and  groves  to  thee ; 
A  pyramid  shall  consecrate  thy  crimes. 
Thy  name  and  honors,  to  succeeding  times  ; 
There  shall  thine  image  hold  the  highest  place 
Among  the  gods  of  man's  revolted  race  I 

"  That  race  shall  perish: — Men  and  Giants,  uli   J 
Thy  kindred  and  thy  worshippers  shall  fall. 
The  babe,  whose  life  with  yesterday  began, 
May  spring  to  youth,  and  ripen  into  man  ; 
But  ere  his  locks  are  tinged  with  fading  grey. 
This  world  of  sinners  shall  be  swept  away. 
Jehovah  lifts  his  standard  to  the  skies. 
Swift  at  the  signal  winds  and  vapors  rise  ; 
The  sun  in  sackcloth  veils  his  face  at  noon, — 
The  stars  are  quench'd,  and  tum'd  to  blood  the  rnoon 
Heaven's  fountains  open,  clouds  dissolving  roll 
In  mingled  cataracts  from  pole  to  pole. 
Earth's  central  sluices  burst,  the  hills  uptorn. 
In  rapid  whirlpools  down  the  gulf  are  borne  : 
The  voice  that  taught  the  Deep  his  bounds  to  know. 
'  Thus  far,  O  Sea  !  nor  farther  shalt  thou  go,' — 


which  there  are  cells  to  receive  the  dead  bodies :  here  the  de- 
ceased monarchs  lie  in  a  distinguished  sort  of  state,  suitable  to 
their  former  rank,  each  on  his  own  couch,  with  his  arms  beside 
him,  his  sword  at  his  head,  and  the  bodies  of  his  chiefs  and 
companions  around  him.  *****  These  illustrious  shades  rise, 
at  once  from  their  couches,  as  from  their  thrones  ;  and  advance 
to  the  entrance  of  the  cavern  to  meet  the  King  of  Babylon,  and 
to  receive  him  with  insults  on  his  fall." — L,owlk's  Isaiali,  ch. 
xiv,  V.  9,  et  seq. 

230 


THE  WORLD  BEFORE  THE  FLOOD. 


47 


$ends  forth  the  floods,  commissiou'd  to  devour, 
iVith  boundless  license  and  resistless  power; 
They  own  no  impulse  but  the  tempest's  sway, 
N'or  find  a  Umil  but  the  light  of  day. 

"  The  vision  opens : — sunk  beneath  the  wave. 
The  guilty  share  an  universal  grave  : 
}ne  wilderness  of  water  rolls  m  view, 
\nd  heaven  and  ocean  wear  one  turbid  hue ; 
5till  stream  unbroken  torrents  from  the  skies, 
iigher  beneath  the  inundations  rise  ; 
A.  lurid  twilight  glares  athwart  the  scene, 
Oow  thunders  peal,  faint  lightnings  flash  between. 
— Methinks  I  see  a  distant  vessel  ride, 
N.  lonely  object  on  the  shoreless  tide  ; 
.Vithin  whose  ark  the  innocent  have  found 
safety,  while  stay'd  Destruction  ravens  round  ; 
Phus  in  the  hour  of  vengeance,  God,  who  know^s 
b  'lis  ser%'ants,  spares  them,  while  he  smites  his  foes. 

1 1    "  Eastward  I  turn  ; — o'er  all  the  deluged  lands, 
!■  iJnshaken  yet,  a  mighty  mountain  stands, 
^Vhere  Seih,  of  old,  his  flock  to  pasture  led, 
"ind  watch'd  the  stars  at  midnight,  from  its  head ; 
\.n  island  now,  its  dark  majestic  form 
,;cowls  through  the  thickest  ravage  of  the  storm ; 
jMiile  on  its  top,  the  monument  of  fame, 
iJuilt  by  thy  murderers  to  adorn  thy  name, 
i)efies  the  shock ; — a  thousand  cubits  high, 
^'he  sloping  pyramid  ascends  the  sky. 
'hither,  their  latest  refuge  in  distress, 
ike  hunted  wolves,  the  rallying  Giants  press ; 
,  ilound  the  broad  base  of  that  stupendous  tov^er, 
'  Phe  shuddering  fugitives  collect  their  power, 
j'ling  to  the  dizzy  cliff,  o'er  ocean  bend, 
knd  howl  with  terror  as  the  deeps  tiscend. 
phe  mountain's  strong  foundations  still  endure, 
'  phe  heights  repel  the  surge. — AAvhile  secure, 
jVnd  cheer'd  with  frantic  hope,  thy  votaries  climb 
Che  fabric,  rising  step  by  step  sublime. 
iJeyond  the  clouds  they  see  the  summit  glow 
•n  heaven's  pure  daylight,  o'er  the  gloom  below%- 
There  too  thy  worshipp'd  image  shines  like  fire, 
n  the  full  glory  of  thy  fabled  sire, 
^hey  hail  the  omen,  and  with  heart  and  voice, 
;;all  on  thy  name,  and  in  thy  smile  rejoice : 
"■alse  omen !  on  thy  name  in  vain  they  call ; 
pools  in  their  joy ; — a  moment,  and  they  fall, 
ilent  by  an  earthquake  of  the  buried  plain, 
i^nd  shaken  by  the  whole  disrupted  main, 
irhe  mountain  trembles  on  its  failing^base, 
t  slides,  it  stoops,  it  rushes  from  its  place; 
^rom  all  the  Giants  bursts  one  drowning  cry ; 
lark!  'tis  thy  name — they  curse  it  as  they  die; 
iiheer  to  the  lowest  gulf  the  pile  is  hurl'd, 
The  last  sad  wreck  of  a  devoted  world. 

'    "  So  fall  transgressors  : — Tyrant  I  now  fulfil 
[Fhy  secret  purposes,  thine  utmost  will ; 
^  I'iere  crown  thy  triumphs : — life  or  death  decree. 
The  weakest  here  disdains  thy  power  and  thee." 

.    Thus  when  the  Patriarch  ceased,  and  every  ear 
u   Btill  listen'd  in  suspense  of  hope  and  fear, 
■'■   '5ublime,  ineffable,  angelic  grace 

jcam'd  in  liis  meek  and  venerable  face  ; 


And  sudden  glor\',  streaming  round  his  head, 

O'er  all  his  robes  with  lambent  lustre  spread ; 

His  earthly  features  grew  divinely  bright, 

His  essence  seem'd  transforming  into  light. 

Brief  silence,  like  the  pause  between  the  flash, 

At  midnight,  and  the  following  thunder-crash, 

Ensued  : — Anon,  with  universal  cry, 

The  Giants  rush'd  upon  the  prophet — "  Die  !" 

The  king  leapt  foremost  from  his  throne ;  — he  drew 

His  battle-sword,  as  on  his  mark  he  flew ; 

With  aim  unerring,  and  tempestuous  sound, 

The  blade  descended  deep  along  the  ground ; 

The  foe  was  fled,  and,  self-o'erwhelm'd,  his  strength 

Hurl'd  to  the  earth  his  Atlantean  length ; 

But  ere  his  chiefs  could  stretch  the  helping  arm, 

He  sprang  upon  his  feet  in  pale  alarm ; 

Fleadlong  and  blind  with  rage  he  search'd  around. 

But  Enoch  waWd  with  God,  and  was  not  found. 

Yet  where  the  captives  stood,  in  holy  awe. 
Rapt  on  the  wings  of  cherubim,  they  saw 
Their  sainted  sire  ascending  through  the  night ; 
He  turn'd  his  face  to  bless  them  in  his  flight; 
Then  vanish'd  ■ — Javan  caught  the  prophet's  ej^e, 
And  snatch'd  his  mantle  faUing  from  the  sky ; 
O'er  him  the  Spirit  of  the  Prophet  came, 
Like  rushing  wind  awakening  hidden  flame : 
"Where  is  the  God  of  Enoch  now?"  he  cried:' 
"Captives,  come  forth!  Despisers,  shrink  aside." 
He  spake,  and  bursting  through  the  Giant-throng, 
Smote  with  the  mantle  as  he  moved  along ; 
A  power  invisible  their  rage  controll'd, 
Hither  and  thither  as  he  turn'd  they  roll'd ; 
Unawed,  unharm'd,  the  ransom'd  prisoners  pass'd 
Through  ranks  of  foes  astonished  and  aghast  : 
Close  in  the  youth's  conducting  steps  they  trod 
— So  Israel  march'd  when  IMoses  raised  his  rod, 
And  led  their  host,  enfranchised,  through  the  wave 
The  people's  safeguard,  the  pursuers'  grave. 

Thus  from  the  wolves  this  little  flock  was  torn.. 
And  sheltering  in  the  mountain-caves  till  mom, 
They  join'd  to  sing,  in  strains  of  full  delight, 
Songs  of  deliverance  through  the  dreary  night. 

The  Giants'  frenzy/,  when  they  lost  their  prey. 
No  tongue  of  man  or  angel  might  portray : 
First  on  their  idol-gods  their  vengeance  turn'd, 
Those  gods  on  their  own  altar-piles  they  burn'd ; 
Then,  at  their  sovereign's  mandate,  sallied  forth 
To  rouse  their  host  to  combat,  from  the  north ; 
Eager  to  risk  their  uttermost  eraprize, 
Perish  ere  mom,  or  reign  in  Paradise. 
Now  the  slow  tempest,  that  so  long  had  lower'd, 
Keen  in  their  faces  sleet  and  hailstones  shower'd 
The  winds  blew  loud,  the  waters  roar'd  around, 
An  earthquake  rock'd  the  agonizing  ground  ; 
Red  in  the  west  the  burning  mount,  array 'd 
With  tenfold  terror  by  incumbent  shade 
(For  moon  and  stars  were  wrapt  in  dunnest  gloom), 
Glared  like  a  torch  amidst  creation's  tomb: 


1  "  And  he  (Elisha)  took  the  mantle  of  Elijah  thnt  fell  from 
him.  and  f=mote  the  waters  {of  .Tor dan),  and  s:iid,— Where  '^% 
the  Lord  God  of  Elijah  ?— and  when  he  had  smitten  the  waters, 
they  parted  hither  and  thither;  and  Elisha  went  over."  11 
Kings.  U.V.  14.  23^ 


I 


48 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So  Sinai's  rocks  were  kindled  when  they  felt 
Their  Maker's  footstep,  and  began  to  melt ; 
Darkness  was  his  pavilion,  when  He  came, 
Hid  in  the  brightness  of  descending  flame, 
While  storm,  and  whirlwind,  and  the  trumpet's  blast, 
Proclaim'd  his  law  in  thvinder,  as  he  pass'd. 

The  Giants  reach'd  their  camp: — the  night's  alarms 
Meanwhile  had  startled  all  their  slaves  to  arras  ; 
They  grusp'd  their  weapons  as  from  sleep  they  sprang. 
From  tent  to  tent  the  brazen  clangor  rang : 
The  hail,  the  earthquake,  the  mysterious  light 
Unnerved   their  strength,    o'erwhelm'd    them   with 

affright. 
"  Warriors !  to  battle — summon  all  your  powers  ; 
Warriors  !  to  conquest — Paradise  is  ours  ! " 
Exclaim'd  their  monarch  : — not  an  arm  w  as  raised  ; 
In  vacancy  of  thought,  like  men  amazed, 
And  lost  amidst  confounding  dreams,  they  stood, 
With  palsied  eyes,  and  horror-frozen  blood. 
The  Giants'  rage  to  instant  madness  grew ; 
The  king  and  chiefs  on  their  own  legions  flew, 
Denouncing  vengeance ; — then  had  all  the  plain 
Been  heap'd  with  myriads  by  their  leaders  slain ; 
But  ere  a  sword  could  fall, — by  whirlwinds  driven, 
In  mighty  volumes,  through  the  vault  of  heaven, 
From  Eden's  summit,  o'er  the  camp  accurst, 
The  darting  fires  with  noon-day  splendor  burst ; 
And  fearful  grew  the  scene  above,  below. 
With  sights  of  mystery,  and  sounds  of  woe. 
The  embattled  cherubim  appear'd  on  high, 
And  coursers,  wing'd  with  lightning,  swept  the  sky; 
Chariots,  whose  wheels  with  living  instinct  roU'd, 
Spirits  of  unimaginable  mould. 
Powers,  such  as  dwell  in  heaven's  serenest  light. 
Too  pure,  too  terrible  for  mortal  sight. 
From  depth  of  midnight  suddenly  revcal'd. 
In  arms,  against  the  Giants  took  the  field. 
On  such  an  host  Elisha's  servant  gazed, 
When  all  the  mountain  round  the  Prophet  blazed  : ' 
With  such  an  host,  when  war  in  heaven  was  wrought, 
Michael  against  the  Prince  of  Darkness  fought. 

Roused  by  the  trumpet,  that  shall  wake  the  dead, 
The  torpid  foe  in  consternation  fled ; 
The  Giants  headlong  in  the  uproar  ran. 
The  king  himself  the  foremost  of  the  van, 
Nor  e'er  his  rushing  squadrons  led  to  fight 
With  swifter  onset,  than  he  led  that  flight. 
Homeward  the  panic-stricken  legions  flew ; 
Their  arms,  their  vestments,  from  their  limbs  they 

threw; 
O'er  shields  and  helms  the  reinless  camel  strode. 
And  gold  and  purple  strew'd  the  desert  road. 


When  through  the  Assyrian  army,  like  a  blast. 

At  midnight,  the  destroying  angel  pass'd. 

The  tyrant  that  defied  the  living  God, 

Precipitately  thus  his  steps  retrod  ; 

Even  by  the  way  he  came,  lo  his  own  land, 

Retum'd  to  perish  by  hie  oflfspring's  hand.' 

So  fled  the  Giant-monarch  ; — but  unknown 

The  hand  that  smote  his  life — he  died  alone ; 

Amidst  the  tumult  treacherously  slain, 

At  mom  his  chieftains  sought  their  lord  in  vain, 

Then,  reckless  of  the  harvest  of  their  toils. 

Their  camp,  their  captives,  all  their  treasured  spoils, 

Renew'd  their  flight  o'er  eastern  hills  afar. 

With  life  alone  escaping  from  that  war, 

In  which  their  king  had  hail'd  his  realm  complete, 

The  world's  last  province  bow'd  beneath  his  feet. 

As,  when  the  waters  of  the  flood  declined, 
Rolling  tumultuously  before  the  wind. 
The  proud  waves  shrunk  from  low  to  lower  beds 
And  high  the  hills  and  higher  raised  their  heads, 
Till  ocean  lay,  enchased  with  rock  and  strand, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 
While  earth  with  wrecks  magnificent  was  strew'd 
And  stillness  reign'd  o'er  Nature's  solitude  : 
— Thus  in  a  storm  of  horror  and  dismay. 
All  night  the  Giant-army  sped  away ; 
Thus  on  a  lonely,  sad,  and  silent  scene. 
The  morning  rose  in  majesty  serene. 

Early  and  joyful  o'er  the  dewy  grass. 
Straight  to  their  glen  the  ransom'd  Patriarchs  pass. 
As  doves  released  their  parent-dwelling  find. 
They  fly  for  Ufe,  nor  cast  a  look  behind  ; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  dear  sequester'd  spot, 
Enoch  alone  of  all  their  train  "  was  not." 
With   them   the    bard,  who  from   the  world   wit 

drew, 
Javan,  from  folly  and  ambition  flew ; 
Though  poor  his  lot,  within  that  narrow  bound. 
Friendship,  and  home,  and  faithful  love,  he  found 
There  did  his  wanderings  and  afflictions  cease. 
His  youth  was  penitence,  his  age  was  peace. 

Meanwhile  the  scatter'd  tribes  of  Eden's  plain 
Turn'd  to  their  desolated  fields  again. 
And  join'd  their  brethren,  captives  once  in  fight. 
But  left  to  freedom  in  that  dreadful  flight: 
Thenceforth  redeem'd  from  war's  unnumber'd  wO' 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  their  retreated  foes,  i 

By  Giant-tyranny  no  more  opprest, 
The  people  flourish'd,  and  the  land  had  rest. 


©teenlantr. 


PREFACE. 


In  this  Poem  the  Author  frankly  acknowledges  that 
he  has  so  far  failed,  as  to  be  under  the  necessity  of 
sending  it  forth  incomplete,  or  supjjressing  it  alto- 
other.  Why  he  has  not  done  the  latter  is  of  little  im- 

1  n.  Kings,  vi,  v.  17 


portance  to  the  Public,  which  will  assuredly  award  b; 
no  more  credit  than  his  performance,  taken  as  it  is,  (' 
command  ;  while  the  consequences  of  his  temer  • 
or  his  misfortune,  must  remain  wholly  with  hims<  * 
The  original  plan  was  intended  to  embrace  ,» 
most  prominent  events  in  the  annals  of  ancient  1 1 


1 II.  Kines,  xix,  v.  33—37. 


232 


GREENLAND. 


41) 


modem  Greenland; — incidental  descriptions  of  what- 
ever is  sublime  or  picturesque  in  the  seasons  and 
scenery,  or  peculiar  in  the  superstitions,  manners, 
and  character  of  the  natives — with  a  rapid  reirospect 
of  that  moral  revolution,  which  the  gospel  has 
iwrought  among  these  people,  by  reclaiming  them, 
almost  univei-sally,  from  idolatry  and  barbarism. 

Of  that  part  of  the  projected  Poem  vvliich  is  here 
exhibited,  the  first  three  Cantos  contain  a  sketch  of 
the  history  of  the  ancient  Moravian  Church,  the  origin 
of  the  missions  by  that  people  to  Greenland,  and  the 

i  jvoyage  of  the  first  three  brethren  who  went  thither 
in  1733.  The  fourth  Canto  refers  principally  to  tra- 
ditions concerning  the  Norwegian  colonies,  which  are 
said  to  have  existed  on  both  shores  of  Greenland  from 
the  tenth  to  the  fifteenth  centuries.  In  the  fifth  Canto 

I  jthe  Author  has  attempted,  in  a  series  of  episodes,  to 

;  Isum  up  and  exemplify  the  chief  causes  of  the  extinc- 
tion of  those  colonies,  and  the  abandonment  of  Green- 
land, for  several  centuries,  by  European  voyagers. 
Although  this  Canto  is  entirely  a  work  of  imagina- 
tion, the  fiction  has  not  been  adopted  merely  as  a 
substitute  for  lost  facts,  but  as  a  vehicle  for  illus- 
itrating  many  of  the  most  splendid  and  striking  phe- 
iaomenaof  the  climate,  for  which  a  more  appropriate 
[place  might  not  have  been  found,  even  if  the  Poem 
|iad  been  carried  on  to  a  successful  conclusion.  But 
liaving  proceeded  thus  far,  personal  circumstances, 
md  considerations  which  it  would  be  impertinent  to 
Darticularize  here,  compelled  the  Author  to  relinquish 
lis  enterprise.  Whether  he  may  ever  have  courage 
)r  opportunity  to  resume  it,  must  depend  on  con- 
jngencies  utterly  beyond  his  power. 
!  The  principal  subjects  introduced  in  the  course  of 
jhe  Poem,  will  be  found  in  Cranizs  Histories  of  the 

«,  (Brethren  and  of  Greenland,  or  in  Risler's  Select 
iXarratives,  extracted  from  the  records  of  the  ancient 

s^  iJnilas  Fratriim,  or  United  Brethren.  To  the  ac- 
i;o«nts  of  Iceland,  by  various  travellers,  the  Author 
!s  also  much  indebted. 

,  I        Sheffield,  March  27,  1819. 


GREENLAND. 


CANTO  L 

The  three  first  Moravian  Missionaries  are  represented 
as  on  their  voyage  to  Greenland,  in  the  year  1733. 
— Sketch  of  the  descent,  establishment,  persecu- 
tions, extinction,  and  revival  of  the  Church  of  the 
United  Brethren,  from  the  tenth  to  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century. — The  origin  of  their 
Missions  to  the  West  Indies  and  to  Greenland. 


The  moon  is  watching  in  the  sky ;  the  stars 
\re  swiftly  wheeling  on  their  golden  cars ; 
iDcean,  outstretch'd  with  infinite  expanse, 
[Serenely  slumbers  in  a  glorious  trance  ; 
,j  jThe  tide,  o'er  which  no  troubling  spirits  breathe, 
^'^Ueflects  a  cloudless  firmament  beneath; 
'■''iVVhere,  poised  as  in  the  centre  of  a  sphere, 
[    ]\  ship  above  and  ship  below  appear  ; 
^   A  double  image,  pictured  on  the  deep, 
^  The  vessel  o'er  its  shadow  seems  to  sleep; 
'■'■"  Yet,  like  the  host  of  heaven,  that  never  rest, 
"^  Whh  evanescent  motion  to  the  west, 

30  U2 


The  pageant  glides  through  loneliness  and  night, 
And  leaves  behind  a  rippUng  wake  of  light. 

Hark!  through  the  calm  and  silence  of  the  scene. 
Slow,  solenui,  sweet,  with  many  a  pause  between, 
Celestial  mu.sic  swells  along  the  air! 
— No — 't  is  tlie  evening  hymn  of  praise  and  prayer 
F-om  yonder  deck,  where,  on  the  stern  retired. 
Three  humble  voyagers,  with  looks  inspired, 
And  hearts  enkindled  with  a  holier  flame 
Than  ever  lit  to  empire  or  to  fame. 
Devoutly  stand : — their  choral  accents  rise 
On  wings  of  harmony  beyond  the  skies ; 
And,  'midst  the  songs  that  Seraph-Minstrels  sing. 
Day  without  night,  to  their  immortal  King, 
These  simple  strains, — which  erst  Bohemian  hills 
Echoed  to  pathless  woods  and  desert  rills. 
Now  heard  from  Shetland's  azure  bound, — are  known 
In  heaven ;  and  He,  who  sits  upon  the  throne 
In  human  form,  with  mediatorial  power. 
Remembers  Calvary,  and  hails  the  hour. 
When,  by  th'  Almighty  leather's  high  decree. 
The  utmost  north  to  Him  shall  bow  the  knee, 
And,  won  by  love,  an  untamed  rebel  race 
Kiss  the  victorious  Sceptre  of  His  grace. 
Then  to  His  eye,  whose  instant  glance  pervades 
Heaven's  heights.  Earth's  circle.  Hell's  profi:»undest 

shades. 
Is  there  a  group  more  lovely  than  those  three 
Night-watching  pilgrims  on  the  lonely  sea  ? 
Or  to  His  ear,  that  gathers  in  one  sound 
The  voices  of  adoring  worlds  around. 
Comes  there  a  breath  of  more  delightful  praise 
Than  the  faint  notes  his  poor  disciples  raise, 
Ere  on  the  treacherous  main  they  sink  to  rest, 
Secure  as  leaning  on  their  Master's  breast  ? 

They  sleep ;  but  memory  wakes  :  and  dreams  array 
Night  in  a  livftly  masquerade  of  day ; 
The  land  they  seek,  the  land  they  leave  behind. 
Met  on  mid-ocean  in  the  plastic  mind ; 
One  brings  forsaken  home  and  friends  so  nigh. 
That  tears  in  slumber  swell  th'  unconscious  eye ; 
The  other  opens,  with  prophetic  view. 
Perils,  which  e'en  their  fathers  never  knew, 
(Though  school'd  by  suffering,  long  inured  to  toil, 
Outcasts  and  exiles  from  their  natal  soil) ; 
— Strange  scenes,  strange  men ;  untold,  untried  dis 

tress ; 
Pain,  hardships,  famine,  cold,  and  nakedness, 
Diseases  ;  death  in  every  hideous  form. 
On  shore,  at  sea,  by  fire,  by  fiood,  by  storm ; 
Wild  beasts,  and  wilder  men : — unmoved  with  fear 
Health,  comfort,  safely,  life,  they  count  not  dear. 
May  they  but  hope  a  Savior's  love  to  show. 
And  warn  one  spirit  from  eternal  woe : 
Nor  will  they  faint,  nor  can  they  strive  in  vain. 
Since  thus — to  hve  is  Christ,  to  die  is  gain. 

'T  is  mom  : — the  bathing  moon  her  lustre  shrouds; 
Wide  o'er  the  east  impends  an  arch  of  Houds, 
That  spans  the  ocean  ;  while  the  infant  dawn 
Peeps  through  the  portal  o'er  the  liquid  lawii 
That  ruffled  by  an  April  gale  appears. 
Between  the  gloom  and  splendor  of  the  spheres, 
Dark  purple  as  the  moorland-heath,  when  rain 
Hangs  in  low  vapors  o'er  th'  autunmol  plain . 

233 


50 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Till  the  full  Sun,  resurgent  from  the  flood, 
Looks  on  the  waves,  and  turns  them  into  blood ; 
But  quickly  kindling,  as  his  beams  aspire, 
The  lambent  bilious  play  in  forms  of  fire. 
— Where  is  the  Vessel  ? — Shijiing  through  the  light 
Like  the  white  sea-fowl's  horizontal  flight, 
Yonder  she  wings,  and  skims,  and  cleaves  her  way 
Through  refluent  foam  and  iridescent  spray. 

Lo !  on  ihe  deck,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
Heaven  in  his  bosom  opening  o'er  his  face, 
Stands  Christian  David — venerable  name  ! 
Bright  in  the  records  of  celestial  fame, 
On  earth  obscure ; — like  some  sequester'd  star, 
That  rolls  in  its  Creator's  beams  afar, 
Unseen  by  man,  till  telescopic  eye, 
Sounding  the  blue  abysses  of  the  sky. 
Draws  forth  its  hidden  beauty  into  light, 
And  adds  a  jewel  to  the  crown  of  night. 
Though  hoary  with  the  multitude  of  years, 
Unshorn  of  strength,  between  his  young  compeers. 
He  towers ; — with  faith,  whose  boundless  glance  can 

see 
Time's  shadows  brightening  through  eternity ; 
Love, — God's  own  love  in  his  pure  breast  enshrined ; 
Love, — love  to  man  the  magnet  of  his  mind ; 
Subhraer  schemes  maturing  in  his  thought 
Than  ever  statesman  plann'd,  or  warrior  wrought ; 
While,  with  rejoicing  tears,  and  rapturous  sighs. 
To  heaven  ascends  their  morning  sacrifice.' 

Whence  are  the  pilgrims?  whither  would  they  roam? 
Greenland  their  port — Moravia  icas  their  home. 
Sprung  from  a  race  of  martyrs,  men  who  bore 
The  cross  on  many  a  Golgotha  of  yore ; 
When  first  Selavonian  tribes  the  truth  received. 
And  princes  at  the  price  of  thrones  believed ;- 


— WTien  Waldo,  flying  from  the  apostate  west,' 
In  German  wilds  his  righteous  cause  confess'd  : 
— When  W^icklifl^e,  like  a  rescuing  Angel,  found 
The  dungeon  where  the  word  of  God  lay  bound, 
Unloosed  its  chains,  and  led  it  by  the  hand, 
In  its  own  sunshine,  through  his  native  land  • » 
— When  Huss,  the  victim  of  perfidious  foes. 
To  heaven  upon  a  fiery  chariot  rose ; 
And  ere  he  vanish'd,  with  a  proj.het's  breath. 
Foretold  th'  immortal  triumphs  of  his  death  :  ^ 


1  The  names  of  the  three  tirst  Moravian  Missionaries  to 
Greenland  were,  Christiaii  David,  Multhew  Stack,  and  Chris- 
Uan  Stack. 

2  The  Church  of  the  United  Brethren  (first  established  under 
that  name  nboui  the  year  14C0)  traces  its  descent  from  the  Scla- 
voninn  branch  of  the  Greek  Church,  which  was  >pread  through- 
out Bohemia  and  Moravia,  as  well  as  the  ancient  Dalmatia. 
The  Bulgarians  were  once  the  most  powerful  tribe  of  tlie  Scla- 
vic  nations  ;  and  among  them  the  gospel  was  introduced  in  the 
ninth  century. 

The  story  of  the  introduction  of  Christianity  among  the  Scla- 
vonic tribes  is  interesting.  The  Bulgarians,  being  borderers  on 
the  Greek  empire,  frequently  made  predatory  incursions  on  the 
Imperial  territory.  On  one  occasion  ihe  sister  of  Bogart.f,  King 
of  the  Buk'arians.  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to  Constan- 
tinople. Being  a  royal  captive,  she  was  treated  with  great 
honor,  and  diligently  instructed  in  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel, 
of  the  truth  of  which  she  became  so  deeply  convinced,  that  she 
desired  to  be  baptized;  and  when,  in  845,  the  Emperor  Michael 
111.  made  peace  with  the  Bulgarians,  she  returned  to  her  country 
a  pious  and  zealous  Christiun.  Being  earnestly  concerned  for 
the  conversion  of  her  brother  and  his  people,  she  wrote  to 
Constantinople  for  teachers  to  instruct  them  in  the  way  of  right- 
eousness. Two  distinguished  bishops  of  the  Greek  Church. 
C/iriUus  and  Methodius,  were  acfordingly  sent  into  Bulgaria. 
The  king  Bogaris,  who  heretofore  had  resisted  conviction,  con- 
ceived a  particular  affection  for  Mtthodius,  who  being  a  skilful 
painter,  was  desired  by  him,  in  the  spirit  of  a  barbarian,  to  com- 
pose a  picture  exhibiting  the  most  horrible  devices.  Methodius 
took  a  hanpy  advantage  of  this  strange  request,  and  painted 
the  day  of  judirment  in  a  style  so  terrific,  and  explained  its 
scenes  to  his  royal  master  in  language  so  awful  and  affecting, 
that  Solaris  was  awakened,  made  a  profession  of  the  true 
faith,  and  was  bap'ized  by  the  name  of  Mirkael,  in  honor  of  j 
his  benefactor,  the  Greek  Emperor.  His  subjects,  according  to  | 
the  fa.«hion  of  the  times,  some  by  choice,  and  others  from  con-  ' 
strainl,  adopted  their  master's  religion.  To  Ci/nllus  is  at-  j 
tribnted  the  translation  of  the  Si^riptures  still  in  use  anum?  the  ' 
H«5s'".endants  of  the  Selavonian  tribes,  which  adhere  to  the  Greek 


Church  ;  and  this  is  probably  the  most  ancient  European  ver- 
sion of  the  Bible  in  a  living  tongue. 

But  notwithstanding  this  triumphant  introduction  of  Chris- 
tianity among  these  tierce  nations  (including  the  Bohemians 
and  Moravians),  multitudes  adhered  to  idolatry,  and  among 
the  nobles  especially  many  continued  Pagans,  and  in  open  or 
secret  enmity  against  the  new  religion  and  its  professors.  In 
Bohemia,  Duke  Borzitcog,  having  embraced  the  gospi-1,  was 
expelled  by  his  chieftains,  and  one  Stovmirus,  who  hud  beea 
thirteen  years  in  exile,  and  who  was  believed  to  be  a  heathen, 
was  chosen  by  them  as  their  prince.  He  being,  however,  soon 
detected  in  Christian  worship,  was  deposed,  and  Borziwogre- 
cnlled.  The  latter  died  soon  after  his  restoration,  leavins  hia 
widow,  Ludomilla,  regent  during  the  minority  of  her  son  IVra- 
tislaus,  who  married  a  noble  lady,  named  Drakumira.  The 
young  duchess,  to  ingratiate  herself  with  her  husband  and  her 
mother-in-law,  affected  to  embrace  Christianity,  while  in  her 
heart  she  remained  an  implacable  enemy  to  it.  Her  husband, 
dying  early,  left  her  with  two  infant  boys.  IVenccslaus.  the 
elder,  was  taken  b/his  grandmother,  the  pious  Ludomilla,  and 
carefully  educated  in  Christian  principles;  the  younier.  Bo 
leslas,  was  not  less  carefully  educated  in  hostility  against  them 
iiy Drahomira;  who,  seizing  the  government  during  the  minority 
of  her  children,  shut  up  the  churches,  forbade  the  clergy  either 
to  preach  or  teach  in  schools,  and  imprisoned,  banished,  or 
put  to  death  those  who  disobeyed  her  edicts  against  the  trospel. 
But  when  her  eldest  son,  JVevceslaus,  became  of  aee,  he  was 
persuaded  by  his  grandmother  and  the  principal  Christiin  nobles 
to  take  possession  of  the  government,  which  was  hisinher  tance. 
He  did  so,  and  began  his  reign  by  removing  his  pagan  mother 
and  brother  to  a  distance  from  the  metropolis.  Drahomira, 
transported  with  rage,  resolved  to  rid  herself  of  her  mother-in- 
law,  whose  influence  over  TVenceslaus  was  predominant.  She 
found  two  heathen  assassins  ready  for  her  purpose,  who,  steal- 
ing unperceived  into  Ludomilla'' s  oratory,  fell  upon  her  as  she 
entered  it  for  evening  prayers,  threw  a  rope  round  her  neck, 
and  strangled  her.  The  remorseless  Drakomirn  next  pi'iited 
against  Wcnceslaus,  to  deprive  him  of  the  government :  but  her 
intrigues  miscarrying,  she  proposed  to  her  heathen  son  to  mur- 
der him.  An  opportunity  soon  offered.  On  the  birth  of  a  son, 
Boleslas  invited  his  Christian  brother  to  visit  him,  and  be 
present  at  a  pretended  ceremony  of  blessing  the  infant.  Jfett- 
ceslaus  attended,  and  was  treated  with  unwonted  kindness  :  but 
suspecting  treachery,  he  could  not  sleep  in  his  broiher't.  hou^e. 
He  therefore  went  to  spend  the  night  in  the  church.  Here,  as  hf 
lay  defenceless  in  an  imagined  sanctuary,  Bole.olus.  instiarateri 
by  their  unnatural  mother,  surprised  and  slew  him  with  hi? 
sabre.  The  murderer  immediately  usurped  the  sovereignty,  and 
commenced  a  cruel  persecution  against  the  Christians,  which 
was  terminated  by  the  interference  of  the  Roman  Emof-ror  Ottt ' 
I,  who  made  war  upon  Boleslas.  reduced  him  to  the  conditior 
of  a  vassal,  and  gave  peace  to  his  persecuted  subjects.  Tbit' 
happened  in  the  year  943. 

1  With  the  Waldenses,  the  Bohemian  and  Moravian  Church- 
es, which  never  properly  submitted  to  the  authority  of  the  Pope 
held  intimate  communion  for  aees:  and  from  Sfep'ien,  the  las 
bishop  of  the  Waldenses,  in  1467,  the  United  Brethnn  receivec 
their  episcopacy.  Almost  immediately  afterwards  those  ancien  ' 
confessors  of  the  truth  were  dispersed  by  a  cruel  persecution 
and  Stephen  himself  suffered  martyrdom,  being  burnt  ad  ;' 
heretic  at  Vienna. 

Q  JHckliffe's  writings  were  early  translated  into  the  Bo' 
hemian  tongue,  and  eagerly  read  by  the  devout  and  persecutei' 
people,  who  never  had  given  up  the  Bible  in  their  own  Iringuape 
nor  consented  to  perform  their  church  service  in  Latin.  .Arch 
bishop  Sbinek.  of  Prague,  ordered  the  works  of  jricl.Uffetoh 
burnt  by  the  hands  of  the  hanginan.  He  himself  could  scarcel; 
read  I 

3  It  is  well  known  that  John  Huss  (who  miirht  be  called  i' 
disciple  uf  our  Wicklifft),  though  furnished  with  a  sni'e  conduct 

234 


GREENLAND. 


51 


When  Ziska,  burning  with  fanatic  zeal, 

Exchanged  the  Spirit's  sword  for  patriot  steel, 

And  through  the  heart  of  Austria's  thick  array 

To  Tabors  summit  stabb'd  resistless  way ; 

But  there  (as  if  transfigured  on  the  spot 

Tlie  world's  Redeemer  stood),  his  rage  forgot; 

Deposed  his  arms  and  trophies  in  the  dust, 

Wept  like  a  babe,  and  placed  in  God  his  trust, 

W^hile  prostrate  warriors  Idss'd  the  hallow'd  ground, 

And  lay,  like  slain,  in  silent  ranks  around  : ' 

— When  mild  Gregorius,  in  a  lowUer  field, 

As  brave  a  witness,  as  unwont  to  yield 

As  Ziska's  self,  with  patient  footsteps  trod 

A  path  of  suffering,  like  the  Son  of  God, 

And  nobler  palms,  by  meek  endurance  won. 

Than  if  his  sword  had  blazed  from  sun  to  sun  i^ 

Though  nature  fail'd  him  on  the  racking  wheel, 

He  felt  the  joys  which  parted  spirits  feel ; 

Rapt  into  bliss  from  ecstacy  of  pain. 

Imagination  wander'd  o'er  a  plain : 


by  the  emperor  Sigismund,  was  burnt  by  a  decree  of  the  coun 
cil  of  Constance.  Several  sayings,  predictive  of  retribution  to 
the  priests,  and  reformation  in  the  Church,  are  recorded,  as  be- 
in^  uttered  by  him  in  his  last  hours.  Among  others; — "A  hun- 
dred years  hence,"  said  he,  addressing  his  judges,  "  ye  shall 
render  an  account  of  your  doings  to  God  and  to  rue." — Luther 
appeared  at  the  period  thus  indicated. 

1  After  the  martyrdomof  ./oAh-//«ss,  his  followers  and  coun- 
trymen took  up  arms  for  the  maintenance  of  their  civil  and  re- 
ligious liberties.  The  first  and  most  distinguished  of  their  leaders 
was  John  Ztska.  He  seized  possession  of  a  high  mountain, 
which  he  fortified,  and  called  Tabor.  Here  he  and  his  people 
(who  were  hence  called  Taborites)  worshipped  God  according 
to  their  consciences  and  his  holy  word;  while  in  the  plains  they 
fouzht  and  conquered  their  persecutors  and  enemies. 

i  The  genuine  followers  o(  JohnHiiss  never  approved  of  the 
war  for  religion  carried  on  by  Ziska,  though  many  of  them 
Were  incidentally  involved  in  it.  Rokyian,  a  Calixtine,  having 
■  with  his  party  made  a  compromise  with  their  sovereign  and  the 
j  priests,  by  which  they  were  allowed  the  use  of  the  cup  in  the  sa- 
I  craraent,  was  made  archbishop  of  Prague  in  the  year  1435;  and 
I  thenceforward,  though  he  had  been  fully  convinced  of  the  truth 
j  of  the  doctrines  promulgated  by  Hiiss,  he  became  a  treacherous 
I  friend  or  an  open  enemy  of  his  followers,  as  it  happened  to  serve 
;  the  purposes  of  his  ambition.  The  Pope,  however,  refused 
f  to  confirm  him  in  his  new  dignity,  unless  he  would  relinquish 
i  the  cup;  on  which,  for  a  time,  he  made  great  pretensions  of  un- 
I  dertaking  a  thorough  reform  in  the  church.  All  who  hoped  any 
I  thing  good  of  him  were  disappointed,  and  none  more  than  his 
I  pious  nephew  Gregorius,  who  in  vain,  on  behalf  of  the  peace- 
i  loving  Hussites,  besought  him  to  proceed  in  the  work  of  church- 
I  regeneration.  He  refused  peremptorily,  at  length,  after  having 
1  greatly  dissimulated  and  temporized.  His  refusal  was  the  im- 
!  mediate  cause  of  the  commencement  of  the  Church  of  the  United 
i  Brethren,  in  that  form  in  which  it  has  been  recognised  for  nearly 
'  400  years.  They  were  no  sooner  known,  however,  as  ''Fratres 
I  legis  Christi,''  Brethren  according  to  the  rule  of  Christ,  than 
I  they  were  persecuted  as  heretics.  Among  others,  Gregoriins^ 
I  who  is  styled  the  "Patriarch  of  the  Brethren,^'  was  apprehend- 
I  ed  at  a  private  meeting  with  a  number  of  his  people.  The  judge 
j  who  executed  the  royal  authority,  on  entering  the  room,  used 
I  these  remarkable  words :  "  It  is  written,  all  that  will  live  godly 
1  in  Christ  Jesus  shall  suffer  persecution;  therefore  follmo  me, 
\  by  command  of  the  higher  powers.''''  They  followed,  and  were 
I  sentenced  to  the  torture.  On  the  rack,  Gregoritis  fell  into  a 
j  swoon,  and  all  present  supposed  him  to  be  dead.  Hereupon  his 
!  apostate  uncle  Rokyzan  hastened  to  the  spot,  and  falling  upon 
'  his  neck,  with  tears  and  loud  lamentations,  bewailed  him,  ex- 
i  claiming — "  O,  my  dear  Gregorius  '■  would  to  God  I  were  where 
■  tkouart!"  His  nephew,  however,  revived,  and  was  set  at  lib- 
I  crty.  He  afterwards,  according  to  tradition,  declared  that  in 
I  his  trance  he  had  seen  a  vision: — a  tree,  covered  with  leaves 
.  and  blossoms  and  fruits,  on  which  many  beautiful  birds  were 
feeding  and  melodiously  singing.  Under  it,  was  a  shepherd 
boy;  and  near  at  hand,  three  venerable  old  men  (as  guardians 
of  the  tree),  whose  habiliments  and  countenances  were  those 
of  the  three  persons  who,  several  years  afterwards,  were  con- 


Fair  in  the  midst,  beneath  a  morning  sky, 

A  tree  its  ample  branches  bore  on  high, 

Wuh  fragrant  bloom,  and  fruit  delicious  hung, 

While  birds  benealh  the  foliage  fed  and  sung ; 

All  glittering  to  the  sun  with  diamond  dew. 

O'er  sheep  and  kine  a  breezy  shade  it  threw ; 

A  lovely  boy,  the  child  of  hope  and  prayer. 

With  crook  and  shepherd's  pipe,  was  watching  there 

At  hand  three  \  cnerable  forms  were  seen, 

In  simple  garb,  with  apostolic  mien, 

Who  mark'd  the  distant  fields  convulsed  with  strife, 

— The  guardian  Cherubs  of  that  Tree  of  Life ; 

Not  arm'd,  like  Eden's  host,  with  flaming  brands, 

Alike  to  friends  and  foes  they  stretch'd  their  hands, 

In  sign  of  peace ;  and  while  Destruction  spread 

His  path  with  carnage,  welcomed  all  who  fled: 

— When  poor  Comenius,  with  his  little  flock, 

Escaped  the  wolves,  and  from  the  boundary  rock, 

Cast  o'er  Moravian  hills  a  look  of  woe, 

Saw  the  green  vales  expand,  the  waters  flow, 

And,  happier  years  revolving  in  his  mind. 

Caught  every  sound  that  murmur'd  on  the  wind; 

As  if  his  eye  could  never  thence  depart. 

As  if  his  ear  was  seated  in  his  heart. 

And  his  full  soul  would  thence  a  passage  break, 

To  leave  the  body,  for  his  country's  sake  ; 

While  on  his  knees  he  pour'd  the  fervent  prayer. 

That  God  would  make  that  martyr-land  his  care. 

And  nourish  in  its  ravaged  soil  a  root 

Of  Gregor's  Tree,  to  bear  perennial  fruit.' 


secrated  the  first  bishops  of  the  Church  of  the  United  Brethren, 
by  Stephen,  the  last  bishop  of  the  Waldenses. 

1  John  .Bmos  Comenius,  one  of  the  most  learned  as  well  as 
pious  men  of  his  age,  was  minister  of  the  Brethren's  congrega- 
tion at  Fulneck,  in  Moravia,  from  1618  to  1627,  when  the  Prot- 
estant nobility  and  clergy  being  expatriated,  he  fled  with  a  part 
of  his  people  through  Silesia  into  Poland.  On  the  summit  of 
the  mountains  forming  the  boundary,  he  turned  his  sorrowful 
eyes  towards  Bohemia  and  Moravia,  and  kneeling  down  with 
his  brethren  there,  itnplored  God,  with  many  tears,  that  ho 
would  not  take  away  the  light  of  his  holy  word  from  those  two 
provinces,  but  preserve  in  them  a  remnant  for  himself.  A  rem- 
nant was  saved. 

Comenius  afterwards  visited  and  resided  in  various  parts  of 
Germtiny.  Holland,  and  England ;  everywhere,  on  his  travels, 
recommending,  with  earnestness  and  importunity,  the  case  of 
his  oppressed  brethren  in  Bohemia  and  Moravia  to  men  in 
power.  But  his  appeals  were  in  vain  ;  and  when,  at  the  peace 
of  Westphalia,  in  1G4S,  he  found  that  nothing  was  provided  for 
their  protection  in  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion,  he  pub- 
lished an  affecting  represenfaiion  of  the  peculiar  hardships  of 
their  church,  in  which  he  observed: — "We  justly,  indeed,  de- 
serve to  bear  the  wrath  of  Almighty  God  ;  but  will  such  men 
(alluding  to  the  Protestant  diplomatists  and  their  constituent 
authorities)  be  able  to  justify  their  actions  before  God,  who, 
forgetting  the  common  cause  of  all  Protestants,  and  the  old 
covenants  amongst  us,  neglect  to  assist  those  who  are  oppressed 
in  the  same  engagements  1  Having  made  peace  for  themselves, 
they  never  gave  it  a  thought,  that  the  Bohemians  and  Moravi- 
ans, who  at  the  first,  and  for  so  many  centuries,  asserted  the 
truth  in  opposition  to  Popery,  were  likewise  worthy  to  be  mu- 
tually considered  by  them ;  that  the  light  of  the  gospel,  which 
first  was  enkindled  and  put  upon  the  candlestick  in  the  Brethren's 
church,  might  not  now  be  extinguished,  as  it  appears  to  be. 
This  afflicted  people,  therefore,  which  on  account  of  its  faith- 
ful adherence  to  the  apostolic  doctrines,  following  the  footsteps 
of  the  primitive  church,  and  the  instructions  of  the  holy  fathers 
has  been  so  much  hated,  persecuted,  tossed  to  and  fro,  and  even 
forsaken  by  those  of  its  own  household,  and  now  finds  mercy 
from  no  man; — this  afflicted  people  has  nothing  left,  but  to 
cast  itself  upon  the  aid  of  the  eternally  merciful  Lord  God,  and 
with  the  ancient  prophet,  when  his  nation  was  overthrown  by 
its  enemies,  to  exclaim — '  For  these  things  I  weep ;  mine  eye, 
mine  eye  runneth  down  with  water,  because  the  Comforter  that 
should  relieve  my  soul  is  far  from  me.'  Lam,  i,  16.— ButTho 

235 


r>2 


MONTGO:\IERrS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


His  prayer  was  heard: — ihat  Church,  through  ages 
past, 
Assail'd  and  rent  by  persecution's  blast ; 
Whose  sons  no  yoke  could  crush,  no  burthen  tire, 
Unawed  by  dungeons,  tortures,  sword,  and  fire, 
(Less  proof  against  the  world's  alluring  wiles. 
Whose  frowns  have  weaker  terrors  than  its  smiles) ; 
—That  Church  o'erihrown,  dispersed,  unpeopled,  dead, 
Oft  from  the  dust  of  ruin  raised  her  head. 
And  rallying  round  her  feet,  as  from  their  graves, 
Her  exiled  orphans,  hid  in  forest-caves, 
Where,  'midst  the  fastnesses  of  rocks  and  glens, 
Banded  hke  robbers,  steahng  from  their  dens. 
By  night  they  met,  their  holiest  vows  to  pay. 
As  if  their  deeds  were  dark,  and  shunn'd  the  day; 
While  Christ's  revilers,  in  his  seamless  robe. 
And  parted  garments,  flaunted  round  the  globe ; 
From  east  to  w^est  while  Priestcraft's  banners  flew. 
And  harness'd  kings  his  iron  chariot  drew, 
— That  Church  advanced  triumphant  o'er  the  ground 
Where  all  her  conquering  martyrs  had  been  crown'd, 
Fearless  her  foe's  whole  malice  to  defy. 
And  worship  God  in  liberty,  or  die  : 
For  truth  and  conscience  oft  she  pour'd  her  blood, 
And  firmest  in  the  fiercest  conflict  stood. 
Wresting  from  bigotry  the  proud  control 
Claim'd  o'er  the  sacred  empire  of  the  soul, 
Where  God,  the  Judge  of  ail,  should  fill  the  throne. 
And  reign,  as  in  his  universe,  alone.' 


O  Lord  God  !  who  abidest  for  ever  and  ever,  and  whose  throne 
is  eternal,  why  wilt  thou  forget  us,  and  even  forsake  us  in  this 
extremity?  O  bring  us,  Lord,  again  to  thyself,  that  we  may  re- 
turn to  our  homes.  Renew  our  days  as  of  old."  In  1649,  Co- 
menius  published  a  History  of  the  Brethren's  Church,  which  he 
dedicated,  as  his  "last  will  and  testament,"  to  the  Church  of 
England,  to  preserve  for  the  successors  of  the  brethren  in  fu- 
ture ages,  as  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life  he  cherished  the  hope  of 
their  revival  and  establishment  in  peace  and  freedom. — This 
work  was  translated  from  the  original  Latin,  and  published  in 
London  in  166L 

1  Previous  to  the  Reformation,  for  about  fifty  years,  the  pris- 
ons in  Bohemia,  and  especially  at  Prague,  were  filled,  from 
time  to  time,  in  consequence  of  special  decrees,  with  members 
of  the  Brethren's  Church.  Jlichael,  one  of  their  first  bishops, 
was  long  under  rigorous  confinement.  Many  perished  in  deep 
dungeons,  with  cold  and  hunger;  others  were  cruelly  tortured. 
The  remainder  were  obliged  to  seek  refuse  in  thick  forests,  and 
to  hide  themselves  by  day  in  caverns  and  recesses  among  the 
rocks.  Fearing  to  be  betrayed  in  the  day-time  by  the  smoke, 
they  kindled  their  fires  only  at  night,  around  which  they  em- 
ployed their  time  in  reading  the  Scriptures,  and  in  prayer.  If 
they  were  under  the  necessity  of  going  out  in  the  snow,  either 
to  seek  provisions  or  to  visit  their  neighbors,  they  always  walk- 
ed behind  one  another,  each  in  his  turn  treading  in  the  footsteps 
of  the  first,  and  the  last  dragging  a  piece  of  brushwood  after 
him,  to  obliterate  the  track,  or  to  make  it  appear  as  if  some 
poor  peasant  had  been  to  the  woods  to  fetch  a  bundle  of  sticks. 
With  the  Reformers,  Lvther,  Culinn,  Zicinglius,  jMelanct/wn, 
Bucer,  and  Capita,  the  Brethren  held  the  most  friendly  corre- 
spondence, and  by  all  were  acknowledged  to  be  a  true  apostoli- 
cal church.  The  strictness  of  their  church-discipline,  however, 
and  the  difference  which  subsisted  among  these  great  men  them- 
selves on  that  general  subji;ct,  as  well  as  the  insulated  locality 
of  the  Brethren,  probably  were  the  causes  why  they  remained 
still  totally  distinct  from  any  of  the  new  Christian  societies 
which  were  then  instituted,  lifter  the  Reformation,  especially 
about  the  beginning  and  till  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, they  were  exposed  to  the  same  kind  of  persecutions  and 
proscriptions  which  their  ancestors  had  suffered.  Ai'ter  the 
death  of  the  Emperor  Rudolph,  in  1612,  the  resolutions  of  the 
Council  of  Tr-^nt  were  decreed  to  be  put  in  force  against  all 
Protestants  !-■  Bohemia.  This  occasioned  a  civil  war.  like  that 
of  the  Hus'xtes.  The  Brethren,  though  they  are  understood  to 
have  taken  very  little  share  in  this  defence  of  the  truth,  by 
weapo-iS  of  carnal  warfare,  were  nevertheless  exposed  to  all 
the  »iodictive  cruelty,  by  which  the  Protestanu  in  Bohemia 


'Twas  thus  through  centuries  she  rose  and  fell* 
At  length  victorious  seem'd  the  gates  of  hell : 
But,  founded  on  a  rock,  which  cannot  move — 
Th'  eternal  rock  of  her  Redeemer's  love — 
That  Church,  which  Satan's  legions  thought  destroy'd. 
Her  name  extmct,  her  place  for  ever  void. 
Alive  once  more,  respired  her  native  air, 
But  found  no  freedom  for  the  voice  of  prayer : 
Again  the  cowl'd  oppressor  clank'd  his  chains, 
Flourish'd  his  scourge,  and  threaten'd  bonds  and  paina 
(His  arm  enfeebled  could  no  longer  kill. 
But  in  his  heart  he  was  a  murderer  still): 
Then  Christian  David,  strengthened  from  above, 
Wise  as  the  serpent,  harmless  as  the  dove ; 
Bold  as  a  lion  on  his  Master's  part, 
In  zeal  a  seraph,  and  a  child  in  heart ; 
Pluck'd  from  the  gripe  of  antiquated  laws 
— (Even  as  a  mother  from  the  felon-jaws 
Of  a  lean  wolf,  that  bears  her  babe  away, 
With  courage  beyond  nature,  rends  the  prey), 
The  liltlc  remnant  of  that  ancient  race  : 
— Far  in  Lusatian  woods  they  f()und  a  place ; 
There, — where  the  sparrow  builds  her  busy  nest. 
And  the  chme-changing  swallow  loves  to  rest, 
Thine  altar,  God  of  Hosts  I — there  still  appear 
The  tribes  to  worship,  imassail'd  by  fear ; 
Not  like  their  fathers,  vex'd  from  age  to  age 
By  blatant  Bigotry's  insensate  rage. 
Abroad  in  every  place, — in  every  hour 
Awake,  alert,  and  ramping  to  devour. 
No :  peaceful  as  the  spot  where  Jacob  slept. 
And  guard  all  night  the  journeying  angels  kept, 
Herrnhut  yet  stands  amidst  her  shelter'd  bowers  ; 
— The  Lord  hath  set  his  watch  upon  her  towers.' 


were  nearly  extirpated,  after  their  defeat  by  the  Imperialists, 
the  White  Mountain,  near  Prague,  in  1620.  On  the  21st  June 
1621,  no  less  than  twenty-seven  of  the  Painma  {Drfevsures) 
of  the  Protestant  cause,  principally  nobles  and  men  of  distinc- 
tion, were  beheaded,  who  all  died  as  faithful  witnesses  and 
martyrs  to  the  religion  of  Christ.  This  execution  was  followed 
by  a  decree  of  banishment  against  all  ministers  of  the  Brethren's 
churches  in  Bohemia  and  Moravia.  Many  hundred  (amilies, 
both  noble  and  plebeian,  fled  into  the  neighboring  provinces.' 
Emigration,  however,  was  rendered  as  ditRcult  as  possible  tq 
the  common  people,  who  were  strictly  watched  by  the  emissa-' 
ries  of  persecution.  Many  thousands,  notwithstanding,  gradu- 
ally made  their  escape,  and  joined  their  ministers  in  exile, 
others,  who  from  age,  infirmity,  or  the  burthen  of  large  families, 
could  not  do  the  same,  remained  in  their  country,  but  were 
compelled  to  worship  God,  after  the  manner  of  their  forefathers, 
in  secret  only  :  for  thenceforward  neither  churches  nor  schools 
for  Protestants  were  allowed  to  exist  in  Bohemia  and  Moravia. 
Search  was  made  for  their  Bibles  and  religious  books,  which 
were  burnt  in  piles,  and  in  eom.e  places  under  the  gallows. 

1  In  1721  (ninety-four  years  after  the  flight  of  Comenius),  the 
Church  of  the  United  Brethren  was  revival  by  the  persecuted 
refugees  from  Moravia  (descendants  of  the  old  confessors  of 
that  name),  who  were  led  from  time  to  time  by  Christian  David 
(himself  a  Moravian,  but  educated  in  the  Lutheran  persuasion), 
to  settle  on  an  uncultivated  piece  of  land,  on  an  estate  belong- 
ing to  Ctunt  Zinzmdorf,  in  Lusatia.  Christian  David,  who 
was  a  carpenter,  began  the  work  of  building  a  church  in  this 
wilderness,  by  striking  his  ax  into  a  tree,  and  exclaiming — 
"Here  hath  the  sparrow  found  an  house,  and  the  swallow  a ' 
nest  for  herself ;  even  thine  altars,  O  Lord  God  of  Hosts!" 
They  named  the  settlement  Herrnhut,  or  The  Lord's  fVatch. 
After  the  lapse  of  nearly  a  century,  during  which  the  refugees 
of  the  Brethren's  churches,  in  Saxony,  Poland,  and  Prussia, 
were  nearly  lost  among  the  people  with  whom  they  associated, 
and  the  small  remnant  that  continued  in  Moravia  kept  up  the 
fire  on  their  family-altars,  while  in  their  churches  it  was  utterly 
extinct,  a  new  persecution  against  this  small  remnant  drove 
many  of  them  from  their  homes,  who.  under  the  conduct  of 
Christian  David,  finding  an  asylum  on  the  estates  of  Count 
Zinzendorf,  founded  near  Bertholsdorf  the  first  congregation 

236 


GREENLAND. 


53 


Soon,  homes  of  humble  form,  and  structure  rude, 
Raised  sweet  society  in  solitude  : 
And  the  lorn  traveller  there,  at  fall  of  night, 
Could  trace  from  distant  hills  the  spangled  light. 
Which  now  from  many  a  cottage-window  stream'd, 
Or  in  full  glory  round  the  chapel  beam'd ; 
While  hymning  voices,  in  the  silent  shade, 
Music  of  all  his  soul's  affections  made : 
Where  through  the  trackless  wilderness  erewhile, 
No  hospitable  ray  was  laiown  to  smile ; 
Or  if  a  sudden  splendor  kindled  joy, 
'T  was  but  a  meteor  dazzling  to  destroy: 
While  the  wood  echoed  to  the  hollow  owl, 
The  fox's  cry,  or  wolf's  lugubrious  howl. 

Unwearied  as  the  camel,  day  by  day, 
Tracks  through  unwater'd  wilds  his  doleful  way, 
Yet  in  his  breast  a  cherish'd  draught  retains, 
T(j  cool  the  fervid  current  in  his  veins, 
While  from  the  sun's  meridian  realms  he  brings 
The  gold  and  gems  of  Ethiopian  Kings : 
So  Christian  David,  spending  yet  unspent, 
Oil  many  a  pilgrimage  of  mercy  went ; 
Through  all  their  haunts  his  suffering  brethren  sought, 
And  safely  to  that  land  of  promise  brought ; 
While  in  his  bosom,  on  the  toilsome  road, 
A  secret  well  of  consolation  flow^'d, 
Fed  from  the  fountain  near  th'  eternal  throne, 
— Bliss  to  the  world  unyielded  and  unknown. 

In  stillness  thus  the  little  Zion  rose ; 
Bat  scarcely  found  those  fugitives  repose, 
Ere  to  the  west  with  pitying  eyes  they  turn'd  ; 
Their  love  to  Christ  beyond  th'  Atlantic  burn'd. 
Forth  sped  their  messengers,  content  to  be 
Captives  themselves,  to  cheer  captivity: 
Soothe  the  poor  negro  with  fraternal  smiles. 
And  preach  deliverance  in  those  prison-isles. 
Where  man's  most  hateful  forms  of  being  meet, 
— The  tyrant  and  the  slave  that  licks  his  feet.* 


of  the  revived  Church  of  the  United  Brethren.  On  the  8th  of 
'June  1722,  Christian  David,  \v\th  four  of  the  first  fugitives  that 
i  arrived  in  Lusatia,  were  presented  to  Count  Zinzendorf's 
'  grandmother,  who  instantly  gave  them  protection,  and  promised 
I  to  furnish  them  with  the  means  of  establishing  themselves  on 
'one  of  her  family-estates.     Count  Ztnzendorf  himself  gives 

the  following  account  of  the  circumstances  under  which  he  fix.'d 

upon  the  situation  for  these  settlers.    He  proposed  a  district 

called  the  Hutberg,  near  the  high  road  to  ZiUau.  It  was  ob- 
'jected,  by  some  who  knew  the  place,  that  there  was  no  water 
i  there:  he  answered  "God  is  able  to  help;'^  and  the  following 
'  morning  early  he  repaired  thither  to  observe  the  rising  of  the 

vapors,  that  he  might  determine  where  a  well  might  be  dug. 
;  The  next  morning  he  again  visited  the  place  alone,  and  satisfied 
'  himself  of  its  eligibility  for  a  settlement.  He  adds,  "I  laid  the 
;  misery  and  desire  of  these  people  before  God  with  many  tears ; 

beseeching  Him,  that  his  hand  might  be  with  me  and  frustrate 
I  my  measures,  if  they  were  in  any  way  displeasing  to  Him.    I 

said  further  to  the  Lord :  Upon  this  spot  I  will,  in  thy  name, 
'  huild  the  first  house  for  them.  In  the  meantime  the  Moravians 

returned  to  the  farm-house  (where  they  had  been  previously 
,  lodged),  having  brought  their  families  thither  out  of  their  native 

country.    These  I  assisted  to  the  best  of  my  power,  and  then 

went  to  Henntrsdorf  to  acquaint  my  lady  (his  grandmother 

■  aforementioned)  with  the  resolution  I  had  taken.  She  made  no 
'  objection,  and  immediately  sent  the  poor  strangers  a  cow,  that 

they  might  be  furnished  with  milk  for  their  liule  children;  and 
she  ordered  me  to  show  them  the  trees  to  be  cut  down  for  their 
building." 
1  In  1732,  when  the  congregation  at  Herrnhut  consisted  of 

■  about  six  hundred  persons,  including  children,  the  two  first  mis- 
'  sionaries  sailed  for  the  Danish  island  of  St.  Thomas,  to  preach 

the  gospel  to  the  negroes ;  and  such  was  their  devotion  to  the 


O'er  Greenland  next  two  youths  in  secret  wept; 
And  where  the  sabbath  of  the  dead  was  kept, 
With  pious  forethought,  while  their  hands  prepare 
Beds  which  the  living  and  unborn  shall  share 
(For  man  so  surely  to  the  dust  is  brought. 
His  grave  before  his  cradle  may  be  wrought), 
They  told  their  purpose,  each  o'erjoy'd  to  find 
His  own  idea  in  his  brother's  mind. 
For  counsel  in  simplicity  they  pray'd, 
And  vows  of  ardent  consecration  made  : 
— Vows  heard  in  heaven ;  from  that  accepted  hour. 
Their  souls  were  clothed  with  confidence  and  power 
Nor  hope  deferr'd  could  quell  their  heart's  desire ; 
The  bush  once  kindled  grew  amidst  the  fire ; 
But  ere  its  shoots  a  tree  of  life  became. 
Congenial  spirits  caught  th'  electric  flame  ; 
And  for  that  holy  service,  3'oung  and  old. 
Their  plighted  faith  and  willing  names  enroU'd ; 
Eager  to  change  the  rest,  so  lately  found, 
For  life-long  labors  on  barbarian  ground  ; 
To  break,  through  barriers  of  eternal  ice, 
A  vista  to  the  gates  of  Paradise  ; 
And  light  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  pole 
The  tenfold  darkness  of  the  human  soul  ; 
To  man, — a  task  more  hopeless  than  to  bless 
With  Indian  fruits  that  arctic  wilderness  ; 
With  God, — as  possible  when  unbegun 
As  though  the  destined  miracle  were  done. 

Three  chosen  candidates  at  length  went  forth, 
Heralds  of  mercy  to  the  frozen  north  ; 
Like  mariners  with  seal'd  instructions  sent. 
They  went  in  faith,  (as  childless  Abram  went 
To  dwell  by  sufferance  in  a  land,  decreed 
The  future  birthright  of  his  promised  seed), 
Unknowing  whither; — uninquiring  why 
Their  lot  was  cast  beneath  so  strange  a  sky, 
Where  cloud  nor  star  appear'd,  to  mortal  sense 
Pointing  the  hidden  path  of  Providence, 
And  all  around  was  darkness  to  be  felt ; 
— Yet  in  that  darkness  light  eternal  dwelt : 
They  knew, — and  't  was  enough  for  them  to  know 
The  still  small  voice  that  whisper'd  them  to  go ; 
For  He,  who  spake  by  that  mysterious  voice. 
Inspired  their  will,  and  made  His  call  their  choice 

See  the  swift  vessel  bounding  o'er  the  tide, 
That  wafts,  with  Christian  David  for  their  guide, 
Tw'O  young  Apostles  on  their  joyful  way. 
To  regions  in  the  twilight  verge  of  day ; 
Freely  they  quit  the  clime  that  gave  them  birth. 
Home,  kindred,  friendship,  all  they  loved  on  earth ; 
What  things  were  gain  before,  accounting  loss. 
And  glorying  in  the  shame,  they  bear  the  cross ; 


good  work,  that  being  told  that  they  could  not  have  intercourse 
otherwise  with  the  objects  of  their  Christian  compassion,  they 
determined  to  sell  themselves  for  slaves  on  their  arrival,  and 
work  with  the  blacks  in  the  plantations.  But  this  sacrifice  was 
not  required.  Many  thousand  negroes  have  since  been  truly 
converted  in  the  West  Indies. 

1  Matthew  Stack  and  Frederick  Boenisch,  two  young  men, 
being  at  work  together,  preparing  a  piece  of  ground  for  a  burial- 
place  at  Herrnhut,  disclosed  to  each  other  their  distinct  desires 
toofterthemselvesto  the  congregation  as  missionaries  to  Green- 
land. They  therefore  became  joint  candidates.  Considerable 
delay,  however,  occurred ;  and  when  it  was  at  length  determined 
to  attempt  the  preaching  of  the  gospel  there,  Frederick  Boe- 
n/scA  being  on  a  distant  journey.  Christian  David  was  appoint 
ed  to  conduct  thither  Matthew  Stack  and  his  cousin  Christian 
Stack,  who  sailed  from  Copenhagen  on  the  10th  of  April  1733 
and  landed  in  Ball's  River  on  the  20th  of  May  following 

237 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— Not  as  the  Spaniard,  on  his  flag  unfurrd, 
A  bloody  omen  through  a  Pagan  world : 

Not  the  vain  image,  which  the  Devotee 

Clasps  as  the  God  of  his  idolatiy ; 

But  in  their  hearts,  to  Greenland's  western  shore, 

That  dear  memorial  of  their  Lord  they  bore, 

Amidst  the  wilderness  to  lift  the  sign 

Of  wrath  appeased  by  sacrifice  divine ; 

And  bid  a  serpent-stung  and  dying  race 

Look  on  their  Healer,  and  be  saved  by  grace. 


CANTO  II. 


Hopes  and  fears. — The  Brethren  pursue  their  Voyage. 
— A  digression  on  Iceland. 


What  are  thine  hopes,  Humanity? — thy  fears  ? 
Poor  voyager,  upon  this  flood  of  years. 
Whose  tide,  unturning,  hurries  to  the  sea 
Of  dark  unsearchable  eternity, 
The  fragile  skiffs,  in  which  thy  children  sail 
A  day,  an  hour,  a  moment,  with  the  gale. 
Then  vanish; — gone  like  eagles  on  the  wind, 
Or  tlsh  in  waves,  that  yield  and  close  behind  ? 
Thine  hopes, — lost  anchors  buried  in  the  deep, 
That  rust,  through  storm  and  calm,  in  iron  sleep; 
Whose  cables,  loose  aloft  and  fix'd  below, 
Rot  with  the  sea-weed,  floating  to  and  fro ! 
Thy  fears — are  wrecks  that  strew  the  fatal  surge. 
Whose  whirlpools  swallow,  or  whose  currents  urge 
Adventurous  barks  on  rocks,  that  lurk  at  rest. 
Where  the  blue  halcyon  builds  her  foam-light  nest ; 
Or  strand  them  on  illumined  shoals,  that  gleam 
Like  drifted  gold  in  summer's  cloudless  beam. 
Thus  would  thy  race,  beneath  their  parent's  eye, 
Live  without  knowledge,  without  prospect  die. 

But  when  Religion  bids  her  spirit  breathe, 
And  opens  bliss  above  and  woe  beneath; 
When  God  reveals  his  march  through  Nature's  night, 
His  steps  are  beauty,  and  his  presence  light: 
His  voice  is  life  : — the  dead  in  conscience  start ; 
They  feel  a  new  creation  in  the  heart. 
Ah !  then,  Humanitj',  thy  hopes,  thy  fears. 
How  changed,  how  wondrous! — On  this  tide  of  years, 
Though  the  frail  barks,  in  which  thine  offspring  sail 
Their  day,  their  hour,  their  moment,  with  the  gale, 
Must  perish  ; — Shipwreck  only  sets  them  free  ; 
With  joys  unmeasured  as  eternity. 
They  ply  on  seas  of  glass  their  golden  oars, 
And  pluck  immortal  fruits  along  the  shores ; 
Nor  shall  their  cables  fail,  their  anchors  rust, 
Who  wait  the  resurrection  of  the  just : 
Moor'd  on  the  rock  of  ages,  though  decay 
Moulder  the  weak  terrestrial  frame  away. 
The  trumpet  sounds, — and  lo !  wherever  spread, 
Earth,  air,  and  ocean,  render  back  their  dead, 
And  souls  Vv^ith  bodies,  spiritual  and  divine. 
In  the  new  heavens,  like  stars  for  ever  shine. 
These  are  thine  Hopes ; — thy  Fears  what  tongue  can 

tell? 
Behold  them  graven  on  the  gates  of  Hell : 
"  The  wrath  of  God  abideth  here :  his  breath 
Kindled  the  flames : — this  is  the  second  death." 


'T  was  Mercy  wrote  the  lines  of  judgment  there; 
None  who  from  earth  can  read  them  may  despair ; 
Man  I — let  the  warning  strike  presumption  dumb;— .  • 
Awake,  arise,  escape  the  wrath  to  come ; 
No  resurrection  from  that  grave  shall  be  ; 
The  worm  within  is — immortality. 

The  terrors  of  Jehovah,  and  his  grace. 
The  Brethren  bear  to  earth's  remotest  race. 
And  now,  exulting  on  their  swift  career. 
The  northern  waters  narrowing  in  the  rear, 
They  rise  upon  th'  Atlantic  flood,  that  rolls 
Shoreless  and  fathomless  between  the  poles. 
Whose  waves  the  east  and  western  world  divide, 
Then  gird  the  globe  with  one  circumfluent  tide^ 
For  mighty  Ocean,  by  whatever  name 
Known  to  vain  man,  is  everywhere  the  same, 
And  deems  all  regions  by  his  gulfs  embraced 
But  vassal  tenures  of  his  sovereign  waste. 
Clear  shines  the  sun ;  the  surge,  intensely  blue, 
Assumes  by  day  heaven's  own  aerial  hue : 
Buoyant  and  beautiful,  as  through  a  sky. 
On  balanced  wings,  behold  the  vessel  fly ; 
Invisibly  impell'd,  as  though  it  felt 
A  soul,  within  its  heart  of  oak  that  dwelt. 
Which  broke  the  billows  with  spontaneous  force, 
Ruled  the  free  elements,  and  chose  its  course. 
Not  so  : — and  yet  along  the  trackless  realm, 
A  hand  unseen  directs  th'  unconscious  helm ; 
The  Power  that  sojourn'd  in  the  cloud  by  day, 
And  fire  by  night,  on  Israel's  desert  way ; 
That  Power  the  obedient  vessel  owns : — His  will, 
Tempest  and  calm,  and  death  and  life,  fulfil. 

Day  following  day  the  current  smoothly  flows ;    - 
Labor  is  but  refreshment  from  repose  ; 
Perils  are  vanish'd  ;  every  fear  resign'd  ; 
Peace  walks  the  waves,  Hope  carols  on  the  wind ; 
And  Time  so  sweetly  travels  o'er  the  deep, 
They  feel  his  motion  like  the  fall  of  sleep 
On  weary  limbs,  that,  stretch'd  in  stillness,  seem 
To  float  upon  the  eddy  of  a  stream. 
Then  sink, — to  wake  in  some  transporting  dream. 
Thus,  while  the  Brethren  far  in  exile  roam, 
V^isions  of  Greenland  show  their  future  home. 
— Now  a  dark  speck,  but  brightening  as  it  flies, 
A  vagrant  sea-fowl  glads  their  eager  eyes; 
How  lovely,  from  the  narrow  deck  to  see 
The  meanest  hnk  of  nature's  family. 
Which  makes  us  feel,  in  dreariest  solitude, 
Affinity  with  all  that  breathe  renew'd ! 
At  once  a  thousand  kind  emotions  start. 
And  the  blood  warms  and  mantles  round  the  heart! 
— O'er  the  ship's  lee,  the  waves,  in  shadow  seen, 
Change  from  deep  indigo  to  beryl  green, 
And  wreaths  of  frequent  weed,  that  slowly  float. 
Land  to  the  watchful  mariner  denote  : 
Ere  long  the  pulse  beats  quicker  through  his  breast 
When,  like  a  range  of  evening  clouds  at  rest, 
Iceland's  grey  cliffs  and  ragged  coast  he  sees, 
But  shuns  them,  leaning  on  the  southern  breeze ; 
And  while  they  vanish  far  in  distance,  tells 
Of  lakes  of  fire  and  necromancers'  spells. 


Strange  Isle !  a  moment  to  poetic  gaze 
Rise  in  thy  majesty  of  rocks  and  bays, 


238 


GREENLAND. 


55 


liens,  fountains,  caves,  that  seem  not  things  of  earlli, 
lut  the  wild  shapes  of  some  prodigious  birth ; 
.s  if  the  kraken,  monarch  of  the  sea, 
V'aliowing  abroad  in  his  immensity, 
.y  polar  storms  and  hghtning  shafts  assail'd, 
Tedized  with  ice  mountains,  here  had  fought  and  fail'd; 
'erish'd — and  in  the  petrifying  blast, 
[is  hulk  became  an  island  rooted  fast : ' 
-Rather,  from  ocean's  dark  foundation  hurl'd, 
liou  art  a  type  of  his  mysterious  world, 
uoy'd  on  the  desolate  abyss,  to  show 
V'hat  wonders  of  creation  hide  below. 

Here  Hecla's  triple  peaks,  with  meteor  lights, 
I'atare's  own  beacons,  cheer  hybernal  nights : 
nt  Avhen  the  orient  flames  in  red  array, 
ike  ghosts  the  spectral  splendors  flee  the  day ; 
lorn  at  her  feet  beholds  supinely  spread 
'he  carcass  of  the  old  chimera  dead, 
'hat  wont  to  vomit  flames  and  molten  ore, 
"o\v  cleft  asunder  to  the  inmost  core ; 
1  smouldering  heaps,wide  wrecks  and  cinders  strown, 
ie  like  the  walls  of  Sodom  overthrown 
>e  from  the  face  of  blushing  Nature  swept, 
nd  where  the  city  stood,  the  Dead  Sea  slept) ; 
riiile  inaccessible,  tradition  feigns, 
o  human  foot  the  guarded  top  remains, 
'here  birds  of  hideous  shape  and  doleful  note, 
ate's  ministers,  in  livid  vapors  float.^ 

Far  off,  amidst  the  placid  sunshine,  glow 
[innitains  with  hearts  of  fire  and  crests  of  snow, 
'hoje  blacken'd  slopes  with  deep  ravines  intrench'd, 
heir  thunders  silenced,  and  their  lightnings  quench'd, 
ill  the  slow  heat  of  spent  eruptions  breathe, 

liile  embryo  earthquakes  swell  their  wombs  beneath. 

Ilark !  from  yon  caldron  cave,  the  battle  sound, 
f  fire  and  water  warring  under  ground  ; 
ack'd  on  the  wheels  of  an  ebnllient  tide, 
ere  might  some  spirit,  fallen  from  bliss,  abide, 
II  li  fitful  wailings  of  intense  despair, 
iich  emanating  splendors  fill  the  air.^ 


1  The  most  horrible  of  fabulous  sea-monsters  is  the  kraken 

haf^iifa,  whirh  many  of  the  Norway  fisliers  pretend  to  have 

en  in  part,  but  none  entire.    They  say,  that  when  they  find  a 

ice  which  is  at  one  time  80  or  100  fathoms  deep,  and  at  an- 

her  only  20  or  30,  and  also  observe  a  multitude  of  fishes,  al- 

>;•  a  delicious  exhalation  which  the  kraken  emits,  they 

.  !.>  that  there  is  one  below  them.    They  therefore  hasten 

'ire  a  larse  draught  of  the  fry  around  them  ;  but  as  soon 

I  they  perceive  the  soundings  to  grow  shallower,  they  scud 

[vay,  and  from  a  safe  distance  behold  him  rising  in  a  chain  of 

jlfes  and  spires,  ihat  thicken  as  they  emerge  till  they  resemble 

■  e  masts  of  innumerable  vessels  moored  on  a  rocky  coast.  He 
len  riots  upon  the  fish  that  have  been  stranded  and  entangled 
I  the  forest  of  spikes  upon  his  back,  anri  havinsr  satiated  his 
jinger,  plunses  into  the  depths  with  a  violent  agitation  of  the 
[iters.  See  Crantz's  Greevland. 
j2  Hecla  is  now  the  ruins  of  a  volcano.    The  throe  peaks  are 

S     lid  to  be  haunted  by  evil  spirits  in  the  shape  of  birds.    TJie 
land  abounds  with  volcanic  mountains. 

j3  The  Geysers,  or  boiling  fountains,  of  Iceland,  have  been  so 
,;nuently  and  so  happily  described,  that  their  phenomena  are 
fficiently  familiar  to  genera!  readers  not  to  require  any  par- 
;ular  illustration  here.  The  Great  Geyser,  according  to  Dr. 
\cndersnn  (the  latest  traveller  who  has  published  an  account 
I  Iceland),  is  seventy  eight  feet  in  perpendiculai-  depth,  and 
pm  eight  to  ten  feet  in  diameter:  the  mouth  is  a  considerable 
jsin,  from  which  the  column  of  boilins  water  is  ejaculated  to 
'  rious  heights ;  sometimes  e.xceeding  100  feet. 


— He  comes,  he  comes  ;  th'  infuriate  Geyser  springs 

Up  to  the  firmament  on  vapory  wings ; 

With  breathless  awe  the  mounting  glory  view  ; 

White  whirling  clouds  his  steep  ascent  pursue. 

But  lo!  a  glimpse; — refulgent  to  the  gale, 

He  starts  all  naked  through  his  riven  veil ; 

A  fountain-column,  terrible  and  bright, 

A  living,  breathing,  moving  form  of  light : 

From  central  earth  to  heaven's  meridian  thrown, 

The  mighty  apparition  towers  alone. 

Rising,  as  though  for  ever  he  could  rise, 

Storm  and  resume  his  palace  in  the  skies. 

All  foam,  and  turbulence,  and  wrath  below, 

Around  him  beams  the  reconciling  bow, 

(Signal  of  peace,  whose  radiant  girdle  binds, 

Till  nature's  doom,  the  waters  and  the  winds ;) 

While  mist  and  spray,  condensed  to  sudden  dews, 

The  air  illumine  with  celestial  hues. 

As  if  the  boimteous  sun  were  raining  down 

The  richest  gems  of  his  imperial  crown. 

In  vain  the  spirit  wrestles  to  break  free. 

Fool-bound  to  fathomless  captivit)' ; 

A  power  unseen,  by  sympathetic  spell 

For  ever  working, — to  his  flinty  cell. 

Recalls  him  from  the  ramparts  of  the  spheres ; 

He  yields,  collapses,  lessens,  disappears ; 

Darloiess  receives  him  in  her  vague  abyss. 

Around  whose  verge  light  froth  and  bubbles  hiss, 

While  the  low^  murmurs  of  the  refluent  tide 

Far  into  subterranean  silence  glide. 

The  eye  still  gazing  down  the  dread  profound. 

When  the  bent  ear  hath  viholly  lost  the  sound. 

— But  is  he  slain  and  sepulchred  ? — Again 

The  deathless  giant  sallies  from  his  den, 

Scales  with  recruited  strength  the  ethereal  walls, 

Struggles  afresh  for  liberty, — and  falls. 

Yes,  and  for  liberty  the  fight  renew'd, 

By  day,  by  night,  undaunted,  unsubdued, 

He  shall  maintain,  till  Iceland's  solid  base 

Fail,  and  the  mountains  vanish  from  its  face. 

And  can  these  fail  ? — Of  Alpine  height  and  mould 
Schapta's  unshaken  battlements  behold  : 
His  throne  an  hundred  hills ;  his  sun-crown'd  head 
Resting  on  clouds ;  his  robe  of  shadow  spread 
O'er  half  the  isle;  he  pours  from  either  hand 
An  unexhausted  river  through  the  land, 
On  whose  fair  banks,  through  valleys  warm  and  green 
Cattle  and  flocks,  and  homes,  and  spires  are  seen. 
Here  Nature's  earthquake  pangs  were  never  felt; 
Here  in  repose  hath  man  for  ages  dwelt ; 
The  everlasting  mountain  seems  to  say, 
"  I  am, — and  I  shall  never  pass  away.'' 

Yet  fifty  winters,  and  with  huge  uproar, 
Thy  pride  sliall  perish  ; — thou  shalt  be  no  more ; 
Amidst  chaotic  ruins  on  the  plain, 
Those  cliffs,  these  waters,  shall  be  sought  in  vain !  • 
— Through  the  dim  vista  of  unfolding  years, 
A  pageant  of  portentous  woe  appears. 


1  This  imaginary  prophecy  (1733)  was  fulfilled  just  fifly  yeara 
afterwards,  in  1783.  The  Schnptn,  Sclinplku,  or  fikaftar  Yvkvl 
and  its  adjacencies  were  the  subjects  of  the  most  tremendous 
volcanic  devastation  on  record.  Two  rivers  were  sunk  or  eva{>- 
orated,  and  their  channels  filled  up  with  lava;  many  villages 
were  utterly  destroyed  ;  and  one-fourth  part  of  the  island  ren- 
dered nearly  uninhabitable.    Famine  and  pestilence  followed. 

239 


56 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yon  rosy  groups,  Avith  golden  locks,  at  play, 

I  see  them, — few,  decrepit,  silent,  grey  ; 

Their  fathers  all  at  rest  beneath  the  sod, 

Whose  floAverless  verdure  marks  the  House  of  God, 

Home  of  the  living  and  the  dead ; — where  meet 

Kindred  and  strangers,  in  communion  sweet. 

When  dawns  the  Sabbath  on  the  block-built  pile  ; 

The  kiss  of  peace,  the  welcome,  and  the  smile 

Go  round  ;  till  comes  the  Priest,  a  father  there, 

And  the  bell  knolls  his  family  to  prayer ; 

Angels  might  stoop  from  thrones  in  heaven,  to  be 

Co-worshippers  in  such  a  family, 

Whom  from  their  nooks  and  dells,  where'er  they  roam, 

The  Sabbath  gathers  to  their  common  home. 

Oh !  I  would  stand  a  keeper  at  this  gate. 

Rather  than  reign  with  kings  in  guilty  state  ; 

A  day  in  such  serene  enjoyment  spent 

Were  worth  an  age  of  splendid  discontent! 

— But  whither  am  I  hurried  from  my  theme  ? 

Schapta  returns  on  the  prophetic  dream. 

From  eve  till  morn  strange  meteors  streak  the  pole ; 
At  cloudless  noon  mysterious  thunders  roll, 
As  if  below  both  shore  and  ocean  hurl'd 
From  deep  convulsions  of^the  nether  world. 
Anon  the  river,  boiling  from  its  bed, 
Shall  leap  its  bounds  and  o'er  the  lowlands  spread, 
Then  waste  in  exhalation, — leaving  void 
As  its  own  channel,  utterly  destroy'd, 
Fields,  gardens,  dwellings,  churches  and  their  graves. 
All  wreck'd,  or  disappearing  with  the  waves. 
The  fugitives  that  'scape  this  instant  death 
Inhale  slow  pestilence  with  every  breath ; 
Mephitic  steams  from  Schapta's  smouldering  breast 
With  livid  horror  shall  the  air  infest  ; 
And  day  shall  glare  so  foully  on  the  sight, 
Darkness  were  refuge  from  the  curse  of  light. 
Lo !  far  among  the  glaciers,  wrapt  in  gloom, 
The  red  precursors  of  approaching  doom, 
Scatter'd  and  solitary  founts  of  fire, 
Unlock'd  by  hands  invisible,  aspire  ; 
Ere  long  more  rapidly  than  eye  can  count. 
Above,  beneath,  they  multiply,  they  mount. 
Converge,  condense, — a  crimson  phalanx  form, 
And  rage  aloft  in  one  unbounded  storm ; 
From  heaven's  red  roof  the  fierce  reflections  throw 
A  sea  of  fluctuating  light  below. 
— Now  the  whole  army  of  destroyers,  fleet 
As  whirlwinds,  terrible  as  lightnings,  meet ; 
The  mountains  melt  like  wax  along  their  course, 
When  downward,  pouring  with  resistless  force. 
Through  the  void  channel  where  the  river  roll'd, 
To  ocean's  verge  their  flaming  march  they  hold ; 
While  blocks  of  ice,  and  crags  of  granite  rent, 
Half-fluid  ore,  and  rugged  minerals  blent, 
Float  on  the  gulf,  till  molten  or  immersed. 
Or  in  explosive  thunderbolts  dispei-sed. 
Thus  shall  the  Schapta.  towering  on  the  brink 
Of  i|rt^nown  jeopardy,  in  ruin  sink  ; 
And,  this  wild  paroxysm  of  frenzy  past. 
At  her  own  work  shall  Nature  stand  aghast. 

Look  on  this  desolation : — mark  yon  brow, 
Once  adamant,  a  cone  of  ashes  now  : 
Here  rivers  swamp'd ;  there  valleys  levell'd,  plains 
O'erwhelm'd  : — one  black-red  wilderness  remains, 


One  crust  of  lava,  through  whose  cinder-heat 
The  pulse  of  buried  streams  is  felt  to  beat ; 
These  form  the  frequent  fissures,  eddying  white 
Sublimed  to  vapor,  issue  forth  like  light 
Amidst  the  sulphury  fumes  that,  drear  and  dun. 
Poison  the  atmosphere  and  blind  the  sun. 
Above,  as  if  the  sky  had  felt  the  stroke 
Of  that  volcano,  and  consumed  to  smoke, 
One  cloud  appears  in  heaven,  and  one  alone, 
Hung  round  the  dark  horizon's  craggy  zone, 
Forming  at  once  the  vast  encircling  wall. 
And  the  dense  roof  of  some  Tartarean  hall, 
Propt  by  a  thousand  pillars,  huge  and  strange, 
Fantastic  forms  that  every  moment  change. 
As  hissing,  surging  from  the  floor  beneath, 
\'olumes  of  steam  th'  imprison'd  waters  breathe. 
Then  should  the  sun,  ere  evening  gloom  ascend. 
Quick  from  the  west  the  murky  curtain  rend. 
And  pour  the  beauty  of  his  beams  between 
These  hideous  arches,  and  light  up  the  scene ; 
At  the  sweet  touch  of  his  transforming  rays 
With  amber  lustre  all  the  columns  blaze. 
And  the  thick  folds  of  cumbrous  fog  aloof 
Change  to  rich  drapery  of  celestial  woof: 
With  such  enchantment  air  and  earth  were  fraught, 
Beyond  the  coloring  of  the  wealthiest  thought. 
That  Iceland  Scalds,  transported  at  the  view, 
Might  deem  the  legends  of  their  fathers  true. 
And  here  behold,  illumining  the  waste. 
The  palace  of  immortal  Odin  placed ; 
Till  rapt  imagination  joy'd  to  hear 
The  neigh  of  steeds,  the  clank  of  armor  near. 
And  saw,  in  barbarous  state,  the  tables  spread 
With  shadowy  food,  and  compass'd  with  the  dead. 
Weary  from  conflicts, — still  the  fierce  delight 
Of  spectre-warriors,  in  the  daily  fight. 
Then  while  they  quaflT'd  the  mead  from  sculls  of  foes. 
By  whirlwind  gusts  the  din  of  battle  rose ; 
The  strife  of  tongues,  the  tournament  of  words 
Following  the  shock  of  shields,  the  clash  of  swords- 
Till,  gorged  and  drunken  at  th'  enormous  feast. 
Awhile  their  revels  and  their  clamors  ceased  ; 
Ceased  to  the  eye  and  ear ; — yet  w  here  they  lay 
Like  sleeping  lions,  surfeited  with  prey. 
In  tawny  groups,  recumbent  through  the  den. 
In  dreams  the  heroes  drank  and  fought  again. 


Away  with  such  Di\nnitiesl  their  birth 
Man's  brain-sick  superstition,  and  their  mirth 
Lust,  rapine,  cruelty  ; — their  fell  employ 
God's  works  and  their  own  votaries  to  destroy. 
— The  Runic  Bard  to  nobler  themes  shall  string 
His  ancient  harp,  and  mightier  triumphs  sing : 
For  glorious  days  are  risen  on  Iceland  : — clear 
The  gospel-trumpet  sounds  to  every  ear. 
And  deep  in  many  a  heart  the  Spirit's  voice 
Bids  the  believing  soul  in  hope  rejoice. 
O'er  the  stern  face  of  this  tempestuous  isle. 
Though  briefly  Spring,  and  Autumn  never,  smile. 
Truth  walks  with  naked  foot  th'  unyielding  snows. 
And  the  glad  desert  blossoms  like  the  rose. 
Though  earthquakes  heave,  though  torrents  drovii) 

his  cot. 
Volcanoes  waste  his  fields, — the  peasant's  lot 
Is  blest  beyond  the  destiny  of  kings : 
— Lifting  his  eyes  above  sublunar  things, 

240 


GREENLAND. 


57 


Like  dying  Stephen,  when  he  saw  in  prayer 
Heaven  open'd,  and  his  Savior  beckoning  there, 
He  cries,  and  clasps  his  Bible  to  his  breast, 
"  Let  the  earth  perish, — here  is  not  my  rest."  ' 


CANTO  III. 


The  Voyage  to  Greenland  concluded. — A  Fog  at  Sea. 
— Ice-fields. — Eclipse  of  the  Sun. — The  Greenland 
fable  of  Malina  and  Aninga. — A  Storm. — The  Ice- 
BUnk. — Northern  Lights. — The  Brethren  land. 


How  speed  the  faithful  witnesses,  who  bore 
The  Bible  and  its  hopes  to  Greenland's  shore  ? 
— Like  Noah's  ark,  alone  upon  the  wave 
(Of  one  lost  world  the  immeasurable  grave), 
Ynnder  the  ship,  a  solitary  speck, 

iies  bounding  from  the  horizon;  while  on  deck 

lin  imagination  rests  her  wing, 
'.:;il  smoothes  har  pinions,  while  the  Pilgrims  sing 
'J  .1.  ir  vesper-orisons. — The  Sun  retires, 
Tvit  as  he  wont,  with  clear  and  golden  fires; 
Bewilder'd  in  a  labyrinth  of  haze, 
1 1  is  orb,  redoubled  with  discolor'd  rays, 

agles  and  vanishes; — along  the  deep, 
.  h  slow  array,  expanding  vapors  creep, 
^^'l;ose  folds,  in  twilight's  yellow  glare  uncurl'd. 
Present  the  dreams  of  an  unreal  world  ; 
Islands  in  air  suspended  ;  marching  ghosts 
or  armies,  shapes  of  castles,  winding  coasts, 
Navies  at  anchor,  mountains,  woods,  and  streams, 
Where  all  is  strange,  and  nothing  what  it  seems; 
Till  deep  involving  gloom,  without  a  spark 
Of  star,  moon,  meteor,  desolately  dark. 
Seals  up  the  vision : — then  the  Pilot's  fears 
iSlacken  his  arm ;  a  doubtful  course  he  steers, 
Till  morning  comes,  but  comes  not  clad  in  light; 
;  Uprisen  day  is  but  a  paler  night, 
(Revealing  not  a  glimpse  of  sea  or  sky  ; 
The  ship's  circumference  bounds  the  sailor's  eye. 

old  and  dense  th'  impervious  fog  extends, 

might  have  touch'd  the  point  where  being  ends, 
ills  bark  is  all  the  universe ;  so  void 
iThe  scene, — as  thougli  creation  were  destroy'd, 
And  he  and  his  few  mates,  of  all  their  race, 
^\'ere  here  becalm'd  in  everlasting  space. - 


1  One  of  the  finest  specimens  of  Icelandic  poetry  extant  is 
3.-\id  to  be  the  "  O'/e  to  the  British  ami  Foreisn  Bible  Society," 
Composed  by  the  Rev.  John  Thorlakton,  of  Boegisa.  the  trans- 
viator  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  into  his  native  tongue.  Of  this 
lOde  there  is  a  Latin  translation  by  the  learned  Iceland  Professor, 
'Finn  Ma^nusson.  A  spirited  English  version  has  also  appear- 
^ed.  Thorlakson  is  a  venerable  old  man,  and  holds  church 
jpreferment  to  the  amount  of  six  pounds  five  shillings  per  annum, 
[out  of  which  he  allows  a  stipend  to  a  curate. 
:  2  The  incidents  described  in  this  Canto  are  founded  upon  the 
real  events  of  the  voyage  of  the  Missionaries,  as  given  in 
Crantz's  History. 

He  says : — "  On  the  10th  of  April  the  Brethren  went  on  board 
ithe  king's  ship  Cnritas,  Captam  Hildcbrnvd.  accompanied  with 
;many  sincere  wishes  for  blessins  from  the  court  (of  Denmark) 
and  all  benevolent  minds.    The  congresation  at  Herrnhut  had 
a  custom,  from  the  year  1729.  before  the  commencement  of  a 
year,  to  compile  a  little  manual,  containing  a  text  of  Holy  Scrip-  ! 
ture  for  every  day  in  the  same,  and  each  illustrated  or  applied  | 
by  a  verse  annexed,  out  of  the  hymn  book.  This  text  was  called 
the  word  of  the  day ;  it  was  given  to  be  the  subject  of  meditation  j 
31  V 


Silent  and  motionless,  above,  below. 
The  sails  all  struck,  the  waves  unheard  to  flow, 
In  this  drear  blank  of  utter  solitude, 
Where  life  stands  still,  no  faithless  fears  intrude, 
Through  that  impervious  veil  the  Brethren  see 
The  face  of  omnipresent  Deity  : 
Nor  him  alone  ; — w  hate'er  his  hand  hath  made  ; 
His  glory  in  the  firmament  display'd; 
The  sun  majestic  in  his  course,  and  sole ; 
The  moon  and  stars  rejoicing  round  the  pole ; 
Earth  o'er  its  peopled  realms  and  wastes  unknown, 
Clad  in  the  wealth  of  every  varying  zone ; 
Ocean  through  all  th'  enchantment  of  his  forms, 
From  breathing  calms  to  devastating  storms ; 
Heaven  in  the  vision  of  eternal  bliss. 
Death's  terrors,  hell's  unsearchable  abyss ; 
— Though  rapt  in  secrecy  from  human  eye. 
These  in  the  mind's  profound  sensorium  lie. 
And,  with  their  Maker,  by  a  glance  of  thought. 
Are,  in  a  moment  to  remembrance  brought ; 
Then  most,  when  most  restrain'd  th'  imperfect  sight 
God  and  his  works  shine  forlh  in  his  own  lieht. 
Yet  clearest  through  that  veil  the  Pilgrims  trace 
Their  Father's  image  in  their  Savior's  face ; 
A  sigh  can  waft  them  to  his  feet  in  prayer, 
Not  Gabriel  bends  w  ith  Ynore  acceptance  there. 
Nor  to  the  throne  from  heaven's  pure  altar  rise 
The  odors  of  a  sweeter  sacrifice. 
Than  when  before  the  mercy-seat  they  kneel. 
And  tell  Him  all  they  fear,  or  hope,  or  feel : 
Perils  without,  and  enemies  within, 
Satan,  the  world,  temptation,  weakness,  sin ; 
Yet  rest  unshaken  on  his  sure  defence. 
Invincible  through  his  omnipotence. 
"Oh!  step  by  step,"  they  cry  "direct  our  way 
And  give  thy  grace,  like  manna,  day  by  day; 
The  store  of  yesterday  will  not  suffice, 
To-morrrow"s  sun  to  us  may  never  rise  ; 
Safe  only,  when  our  souls  are  staid  on  Thee ; 
Rich  only,  when  we  know  our  povertj-." 


with  each  member  of  the  church  in  private,  and  of  discourse 
by  the  ministers  in  the  public  meeting.  Many  a  time  it  has 
been  found  that  the  word  of  the  day,  on  which  some  peculiar 
event  occurred,  has  remarkably  coincided  with  it.  Thus  on 
this  10th  of  April,  when  our  brethren  set  sail  (from  Copen- 
hagen) on  a  mission,  which  often  afterwards  seemed  to  baffle 
all  hope,  the  word  was  (Heh.  xi,  1),  'Faith  is  the  substance 
of  things  hoped  for,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen.'' 

We  view  Him,  whom  no  eye  can  see. 

With  faith's  perspective  stedfaslly. 
In  this  confidence  they  set  sail,  nor  did  they  sr.fTer  themselves 
to  be  confounded  by  any  of  the  unspeakable  difficulties  of  the 
following  years,  till  they  and  we  at  l^ist  beheld  the  completion 
of  what  they  hoped  for  by  faith.  They  had  a  speedy,  and,  ex- 
cepting some  storms,  a  commodious  voyage.  They  .sailed  by 
Shetland,  April  S-il,  passing  there  out  of  the  North  info  the 
West  Sea,  or  long  reach,  and  entered  Davis's  Siraits  about  the 
beginnini  of  May.  On  the  6th  they  fell  among  some  floalin? 
ice,  in  a  thick  fog,  and  the  next  day  were  assailed  by  a  terrible 
tempest;  but  this  very  tempest  drove  the  ice  so  far  asunder, 
that  it  also  dissipated  their  fears.  The  1.3th  they  descried  land, 
but  on  the  same  day.  after  a  total  eclip-eof  the  sun.  there  arose 
a  violent  storm,  that  lasted  four  days  and  nights,  and  drove  them 
sixty  leagues  back.  May  the  20'h,  they  entered  Ball's  River, 
after  a  voyaee  if  six  weeks.  The  word  of  the  day  was  'The 
peace  of  God,  which  passeth  all  uvderstandivir,  keep  your 
hfarts  and  minds  through  .Tesus  Christ.''  By  this  th.y  were 
frequently  encouraged  in  the  first  years  ensuing,  amidst  all  iho 
opposition  which  they  encountered,  and  the  small  prospect  of 
the  conversion  of  the  heathens." 

241 


58 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  step  by  step  the  Lord  those  supphants  led ; 
He  gave  them  daily  grace  like  daily  bread  ; 
By  sea,  on  shore,  ihrougli  all  their  pilgrimage, 
In  rest  and  labor,  to  their  latest  age. 
Sharp  though  their  trials,  and  their  comforts  scant, 
God  was  their  refuge,  and  they  knew  not  want. 

On  rustling  pinions,  like  an  unseen  bird, 
Among  the  yards  a  stirring  breeze  is  heard ; 
The  conscious  vessel  wakes  as  from  a  trance, 
Her  colors  float,  the  filling  sails  advance : 
White  from  her  prow  the  murmuring  surge  recedes 
— So  the  swan,  startled  from  her  nest  of  reeds. 
Swells  into  beauty,  and  with  curving  chest 
Cleaves  the  blue  lake,  with  motion  soft  as  rest. 
Light  o'er  the  liquid  lawn  the  pageant  glides ; 
Her  helm  the  well-experienced  pilot  guides. 
And  whilst  he  threads  the  mist-enveloped  maze, 
Turns  to  the  magnet  his  inquiring  gaze, 
In  whose  mute  oracle,  where'er  he  steers. 
The  pointing  hand  of  Providence  appears ; 
With  this,  though  months  of  gloom  the  main  enrobe. 
His  keel  might  plow  a  furrow  round  the  globe. 

Again  the  night  ascends  without  a  star; 
Low  sounds  come  booming  o'er  the  waves  afar, 
As  if  conflicting  navies  shook  the  flood, 
With  human  thunders,  in  the  strife  of  blood. 
That  slay  more  victims  in  one  brief  campaign, 
Than  heaven's  own  bolts  through  centuries  have 

slain. 
The  seaman  hearkens  ; — color  flies  his  cheek. 
His  stout  heart  throbs  with  fears  he  dare  not  speak : 
No  lightning-splendors  streak  th'  unbroken  gloom ; 
— His  bark  may  shoot  the  gulf  beyond  the  tomb, 
And  he,  if  ere  it  come,  may  meet  a  light, 
W'hich  never  yet  hath  dawn'd  on  living  sight. 
Fresher  and  fresher  blows  th'  insurgent  gale  ; 
He  reefs  his  tops,  he  narrows  sail  by  sail. 
Yet  feels  the  ship  with  swifter  impulse  sweep 
O'er  mightier  billows,  the  recoiling  deep  ; 
While  still,  with  doleful  omen  on  his  ear. 
Come  the  deaf  echoes  of  those  sounds  of  f^ar, 
Distant, — yet  every  volley  rolls  more  near. 

Oh !  in  that  agony  of  thought  forlorn 
How  longs  th'  impatient  mariner  for  mom ! 
She  wakes. — his  eves  are  wither'd  to  behold 
The  scene  which  her  disastrous  beams  unfold  ; 
The  fog  is  vanish'd,  but  the  welkin  lowers. 
Sharp  hail  descends,  and  sleet  in  blhiding  showers ; 
Ocean  one  bed  of  foam,  with  fury  tost. 
In  undistinguishable  whiteness  lost. 
Save  where  vast  fields  of  ice  their  surface  show, 
Buoyant,  but  many  a  fathom  sunk  below : 
Changing  his  station  as  the  fragments  pass. 
Death  stands  the  pilot  of  each  ponderous  mass ; 
Gathering  his  brow  into  the  darkest  frown. 
He  bolts  his  raft  to  run  the  victim  doAvn, 
But  shoots  astern : — the  shock  the  vessel  feels, 
A  moment  in  the  giddy  whirlpool  reels. 
Then  like  an  arrow  soars,  as  through  the  air. 
So  high  the  salient  waves  their  burthen  bear. 

Quick  skirmishes  with  floating  batteries  past, 
Ruin  inevitable  threats  at  last : 


Athwart  the  north,  like  ships  of  battle  spread, 

Winter's  flotilla,  by  their  captain  led, 

(Who  boasts  with  these  to  make  his  prowess  knowrii 

And  plant  his  foot  beyond  the  arctic  zone). 

Islands  of  ice,  so  wedged  and  grappled  lie, 

One  moving  continent  appals  the  eye. 

And  to  the  ear  renews  those  notes  of  doom. 

That    brought    portentous    warnings    through    the 

gloom; 
For  loud  and  louder,  with  explosive  shocks. 
Sudden  convulsions  split  the  frost-bound  rocks, 
And  launch  loose  mountains  on  the  frothing  ooze, 
As  pirate-barks,  on  summer  seas  to  cruise. 
In  front  this  perilous  array ; — behind. 
Borne  on  the  surges,  driven  by  the  wind, 
The  vessel  hurries  to  the  brink  of  fate ; 
All  efl^orts  fail, — but  prayer  is  not  too  late  : 
Then,  in  the  imminent  and  ghastly  fall 
Foul  on  destruction, — the  discijjlcs  call 
On  Him,  their  Master,  who,  in  human  form. 
Slept  in  the  lap  of  the  devouring  storm ; 
On  Him,  who  in  the  midnight  watch  was  seen. 
Walking  the  gulf  incfl^'ably  serene. 
At  whose  rebuke  the  tempest  ceased  to  roar. 
The  winds  caress'd  the  waves,  the  waves  the  shorft 
On  Him  they  call ; — their  prayer,  in  faith  preferred, 
Amidst  the  frantic  hurricane  is  heard. 
He  gives  the  sign,  by  none  in  earth  or  heaven 
Known,  but  by  him  to  whom  the  charge  is  given, 
The  Angel  .of  the  Waters  : — he,  whose  wrath 
Had  hurl'd  the  vessel  on  that  shipwreck  path. 
Becomes  a  minister  of  grace  ; — his  breath 
Blows. — and  the  enemies  are  scatter'd, — Death, 
Reft  of  his  quarry,  plunges  through  the  wave. 
Buried  himself  whore  he  had  mark'd  their  grave 
The  line  of  bailie  broken,  and  the  chain 
Of  that  armada,  which  opprcss'd  the  main, 
Snapt  hopelessly  asunder,  quickly  all 
Th'  enormous  masses  in  disruption  fall. 
And  the  weak  vessel,  through  the  chaos  wild. 
Led  by  the  mighty  Angel, — as  a  child, 
Snatch'd  from  its  crib,  and  in  the  mother's  arms 
Borne  through  a  midnight  tumult  of  alarms, — 
Escapes  the  wrecks ;  nor  slackens  her  career, 
Till  sink  the  forms,  and  cease  the  sounds  of  fear, 
And  He,  who  rules  the  universe  at  will, 
Saith  to  the  reinless  elements,  "  Be  still." 

Then  rise  sweet  hymns  of  gratulalion ;  praise 
From  hearts  and  voices,  in  harmonious  lays ; — 
So  Israel  sang  deliverance,  when  he  stood 
By  the  Red  Sea,  and  saw  the  morning  flood. 
That  in  its  terrible  embraces  bore 
The  slain  pursuers  and  their  spoils  on  shore. 

Light-breathing  gales  awhile  their  course  propel, 
The  billows  roll  with  pleasurable  swell. 
Till  the  seventh  dawn ;  when  o'er  the  pure  expansej 
The  sun,  like  lighting,  throws  his  earliest  glance, 
"Land!  Land!"  exclaims  the  ship-boy  from  the  masli 
"  Land !  Land ! "  with  one  electric  shock  hath  pass'i 
From  lip  to  lip,  and  every  eye  hath  caught 
The  cheering  glimpse  so  long,  so  dearly  sought  : 
Yet  must  imagination  half  supply 
The  doubtful  streak,  dividintr  sea  and  sky ; 
Nor  clearly  known,  till  in  sublimer  day. 
From  icy  cliffs  refracted  splendors  play 

242 


GREENLAND. 


59 


A;.d  clouds  of  sea-fowl  high  in  ether  sweep, 
Or  fall  like  stars  through  sunshine  on  the  deep. 

Tis  Greenland!  but  so  desolately  bare, 
Amphibious  life  alone  inhabits  there; 

T  IS  Greenland  I  yet  so  beautiful  the  sight, 
Tlje  brethren  gaze  with  undisturb'd  delight: 
III  silence  (as  before  the  Throne),  they  stand, 
Aiid  pray,  in  prospect  of  that  promised  land. 
That  He  who  sends  them  thither  may  abide 
Till') ugh  the  waste  howling  wilderness  their  guide  ; 
And  tlie  good  shepherd  seek  his  straying  flocks, 
1.    1  on  those  frozen  waves  and  herbless  rocks. 
i;     fhe  still  waters  of  his  comforts  lead, 
Ai ;  in  the  pastures  of  salvation  feed. 

Thoir  faith  must  yet  be  tried  : — the  sun  at  noon 
^     :  iks  from  the  shadow  of  the  passing  moon, 

.  ray  by  ray,  of  all  his  pomp  bereft, 
•^  ive  one  slight  ring  of  quivering  lustre  left), 
T -al  eclipse  involves  his  peerless  eye; 
P'.rtentous  twilight  creeps  around  the  sky ; 
The  frighted  sea-birds  to  their  haunts  repair ; 
There  is  a  freezing  stillness  in  the  air. 
As  if  the  blood  through  Nature's  veins  ran  cold, 
A  prodisrv  so  fearful  to  behold  ; 
A  few  faint  stars  gleam  through  the  dread  serene, 
Trembling  and  pale  spectators  of  the  scene ; 
While  the  rude  mariners,  with  stern  amaze, 
As  on  some  tragic  execution,  gaze, 
When  calm  but  awful  guilt  is  stretch'd  to  feel 
The  torturing  fire,  or  dislocating  wheel. 
And  life,  like  light  from  yonder  orb,  retires. 
Spark  after  spark,  till  the  whole  man  expires. 
yet  may  the  darken'd  sun  and  mourning  skies 
Point  to  a  higher,  holier  sacrifice  ; 
The  Brethren's  thoughts  to  Calvary's  brow  ascend, 
Elound  the  Redeemer's  Cross  their  spirits  bend. 
And  while  heaven  frovvus,  earth  shudders,  graves 

disclose 

rhe  forms  of  sleepers,  startled  from  repose, 
rhev  catch  the  blessing  of  his  latest  breath, 
Mark  his  last  look,  and  through  the  eclipse  of  death 
See  lovelier  beams  than  Tabor's  vision  shed, 
tVreathe  a  meek  halo  round  his  sacred  head. 
To  Greenland  then,  with  quick  compassion,  turn 
rheir  deepest  sympathies  ;  their  bosoms  bum 
To  her  barbarian  race,  with  tongues  of  flame, 
His  love,  his  grief,  his  glory,  to  proclaim. 

O  could  they  view,  in  this  alarming  hour, 
rhose  wretched  ones,  themselves  beneath  the  power 
)f  darkness,  while  the  shadow  clips  the  sun ! 
3ow  to  their  dens  the  fierce  sea-hunters  rim, 
Who  death  in  every  shape  of  peril  brave. 
By  storms  and  monsters,  on  the  faithless  wave, 

tmn  now  in  speechless  horror  lie  aghast, 
Till  the  malignant  prodigy  be  past : 
ivVhile  bolder  females,  with  tormenting  spells, 

'  Consult  their  household  dogs  as  oracles, 
lAnd  by  the  yelping  of  their  curs  divine, 

'  That  still  the  earth  may  stand,  the  sun  may  shine. 
Then  forth  thev  creep,  and  to  their  offspring  tell 
vVhat  fate  of  old  a  youth  and  maid  befell :  ' 


How,  in  the  age  of  night,  ere  day  was  born 

On  the  blue  hills  of  undiscovered  morn. 

Where  one  pale  cresset  twinkled  through  the  shades 

Malina  and  her  gay  companions  play'd 

A  thousand  mimic  sports,  as  children  wont; 

They  hide,  they  seek,  they  shoot,  harpoon  and  hunt-, 

When  lo !  Aninga,  passionate  and  young, 

Keen  as  a  wolf  upon  his  sister  sprung, 

And  pounced  his  victim  ; — gentler  way  to  woo 

He  knew^  not,  or  he  scorn'd  it  if  he  knew  : 

Malina  snatch'd  her  lamp,  and  in  the  dark 

Dash'd  on  his  felon-front  a  hideous  mark, 

Slipp'd  from  his  foul  embrace  (and  laush'd  aloud), 

Soft  as  the  rainbow  melting  from  the  cloud  ; 

Then  shot  to  heaven,  and  in  her  wondrous  flight 

Transformed  her  image,  sparkled  into  light. 

Became  the  sun,  and  through  the  firmament. 

Forth  in  the  glory  of  a  goddess  went. 

Aninga  baffled,  madden'd,  unsubdued, 

By  her  own  beams  the  fugitive  pursued, 

And  when  she  set,  his  broad  disfigured  mien 

As  the  dim  moon  among  the  stars  was  seen ; 

Thenceforward  doom'd  his  sister's  steps  to  chase. 

But  ne'er  o'ertake  in  heaven's  eternal  race. 

Yet  when  his  vanish'd  orb  might  seem  to  sleep. 

He  takes  his  monthly  pastime  on  the  deep, 

Through  storms,  o'er  cataracts,  in  his  Kayak  sails. 

Strikes  with  unerring  dart  the  polar  whales, 

Or  o'er  ice-mountains,  in  his  dog-drawn  car. 

Pursues  the  reindeer  lo  the  farthest  star. 

But  when  eclipse  his  baneful  disk  invades. 

He  prowls  for  prey  amoiig  the  Greenland  maids, 

Till  roaring  drums,  belaboring  sticks,  and  cries 

Repel  the  errant  Demon  to  the  skies. 

The  sun  hath  cast  aside  his  veil ; — he  shines 
With  purest  splendor  till  his  orb  dechnes  ; 
Then  landward,  marshalling  in  black  array. 
Eruptive  vapors  drive  him  from  the  day ; 
And  night  again,  with  premature  control. 
Binds  light  in  chains  of  darkness  o'er  the  pole ; 
Heaven  in  one  ebon  mass  of  horror  scowls ; 
— Anon  a  universal  whirlwind  howls  : 


;  1  The  Greenlandpfp  believe  that  the  sun  and  moon  are  sister 
!  find  brother.  They,  with  other  children,  were  once  playing  to- 
I  [rether  in  the  dark,  when  Aninga  behaving  rudely  to  hia  sister 
X  Molina,  she  rubbed  her  hands  in  the  soot  about  the  extinguished  i 
i  lamp,  and  smeared  his  face,  that  6he  might  discover  by  day- 1 


light  who  was  her  tormentor :  and  thus  the  dusky  spots  on  thft 
moon  had  their  origin ;  for  she.  struggling  to  escape,  slipped 
out  of  his  arms,  soared  aloft,  and  became  the  sun.  He  followed 
up  into  the  firmament,  and  was  transformed  into  the  moon ; 
but  as  he  has  never  been  able  to  rise  so  high  as  she,  he  con- 
tinues running  after  her,  with  the  vain  hope  of  overtaking  her. 
When  he  is  tired  and  hungry,  in  his  last  quarter,  he  sets  out 
from  his  house  a  seal-hunting,  on  a  sledge  drawn  by  four  great 
doss,  and  stays  several  days  abroad  to  recruit  and  fatten ;  and 
this  produces  the  full  moon.  He  rejoices  when  the  women  die, 
and  Malina,  in  revenge,  rejoices  when  the  men  die  :  therefore 
the  men  keep  at  home  during  an  eclipse  of  the  sun,  and  the 
women  durins  an  eclipse  of  the  moon.  When  he  is  in  eclipse, 
Aninga  prowls  about  the  dwellintis  of  the  Greenlauders,  to 
plague  the  females,  and  steal  provisions  and  skins,  nay  even  to 
kill  those  persons  who  have  not  duly  observed  the  laws  of  tem- 
perance. At  these  times  they  hide  their  most  precious  goods  ; 
and  the  men  carry  kettles  and  chests  to  the  tops  of  their  houses, 
and  rattle  upon  them  with  cudgels  to  frighten  aw.iy  the  moon. 
and  make  him  return  to  his  place  in  the  sky.  During  an  eclipse 
of  the  sun.  the  men  skulk  in  terror  into  the  darkest  corners, 
while  the  women  pinch  the  ears  of  their  does :  and  if  these  cry 
OUT.  it  is  a  sure  omen  that  the  end  of  the  world  is  not  yet  come ; 
for  as  dogs  existed  before  men.  acrordimr  tr  Greenland  logic, 
they  must  have  a  quicker  foresishl  into  futurity.  Should  the 
doss  be  mute  (which  of  course  they  never  are,  under  such  ill 
treatment),  then  the  dissolution  of  all  things  must  be  at  ban-l 
—See  Cranti 


60 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  such  precipitation  d;ish'cl  on  high, 
Not  from  one  point,  but  ii-om  the  whole  dark  sky, 
The  surges  at  the  onset  shrinic  aghast, 
Borne  down  beneath  the  paralyzing  blast; 
But  soon  the  mad  tornado  slants  its  course, 
And  rolls  lliem  into  mountains  by  main  force. 
Then  utterly  embroifd,  through  clouds  and  waves, 
As  'twixt  two  oceans  met  in  conflict,  raves. 
jVow  to  the  passive  bark,  alternate  tost. 
Above,  below,  both  sea  and  sky  are  lost, 
All  but  the  giddy  summit,  where  her  keel 
Hangs  in  light  balance  on  the  billowy  wheel ; 
Then,  as  the  swallow^  in  his  w indward  flight. 
Quivers  the  wing,  returns,  and  darts  downright. 
She  plunges  through  the  blind  abyss,  and  o'er 
Her  groaning  masts  the  cavern'd  waters  roar. 
Ruled  by  the  hurricane,  no  more  the  helm 
Obevs  the  pilot ; — seas  on  seas  o'erwhelm 
The  deck  ;  where  oft  embattled  currents  meet, 
Foam  in  white  whirlpools,  flash  to  spray,  retreat, 
And  rock  the  vessel  with  their  huge  turmoils, 
Like  the  cork-float  around  the  fislier's  toils. 
Three  days  of  restless  agony,  that  seem 
Of  one  delirous  night  the  waking  dream, 
The  mariners  in  vain  their  laboi-s  ply. 
Or  sick  at  heart  in  pale  despondence  lie. 
The  Brethren  weak,  yet  firm  as  when  they  faced 
Winter's  ice-legions  on  his  own  bleak  waste,    . 
In  patient  hope,  that  utters  no  complaint. 
Pray  without  ceasing  ;  pray,  and  never  faint  ; 
Assured  that  He,  who  from  the  tempest's  neck 
Hath  loosed  his  grasp,  still  holds  it  at  his  beck, 
And  with  a  pulse  too  deep  for  mortal  sense, 
— The  secret  pulse  of  his  onmipotence. 
That  beats  through  every  motion  of  the  storm, 
— Can  check  destruction  in  its  w  ildest  form  : 
Bow'd  to  his  will, — their  lot  how  truly  blest, 
Who  live  to  serve  Him,  and  who  die  to  rest! 


To  live  and  serve  him  is  their  Lord's  decree  ; 
He  curbs  the  wind,  he  calms  th'  infuriate  sea ; 
The  sea  and  wind  their  Maker's  yoke  obey. 
And  w-aft  his  servants  on  their  destined  way. 
Though  many  a  league  by  that  disaster  driven 
'Thwart  from  their  course,  with  plank  and  cordage 

riven. 
With  hands  disabled,  and  exhausted  strength. 
The  active  crew  refit  their  bark  at  length  ; 
Along  the  placid  gulf,  with  heaving  sails. 
That  catch  from  everj'^  point  ])ropitious  gales. 
Led  hke  the  moon,  from  infancy  to  age. 
Round  the  wide  zodiac  of  her  pilgrimage, 
Onward  and  smooth  their  voyage  they  pursue. 
Till  Greenland's  coast  again  salutes  their  view. 

T  is  s-mset :  to  the  firmament  serene, 
Th'  Atlantic  wave  reflects  a  gorgeous  scene; 
Broad  in  the  cloudless  west,  a  belt  of  gold 
Girds  the  blue  hemisphere  ;  above  unroll'd. 
The  keen,  clear  air  grows  palpable  to  sight, 
Embodied  in  a  flush  of  crimson  light. 
Through  which  the  evening  star,  with  milder  gleara, 
Descends  to  meet  her  image  in  the  stream. 
Far  in  the  east,  what  spectacle  unlaiown 
Allures  the  eye  to  gaze  on  it  alone  ? 


— Amidst  black  rocks,  that  lift  on  either  hand 

Their  countless  peaks,  and  mark  receding  land ; 

Amidst  a  tortuous  labyrinth  of  seas, 

That  shine  around  the  arctic  Cyclades ; 

Amidst  a  coast  of  dreariest  continent, 

In  many  a  shapeless  promontory  rent ; 

— O'er  rocks,  seas,  islands,  promontories,  spread, 

The  Ice-Blink  rears  its  undulated  head,' 

On  which  the  sun,  beyond  the  horizon  shrined, 

Hath  left  his  richest  garniture  behind  ; 

Piled  on  a  hundred  arches,  ridge  by  ridge. 

O'er  fix'd  and  fluid,  strides  the  Alpine  bridge. 

Whose  blocks  of  sapphire  seem  to  mortal  eye 

Hewn  from  cerulean  quarries  of  the  sky ; 

With  glacier-battlements,  that  crowd  the  spheres, 

The  slow  creation  of  six  thousand  years, 

Amidst  immensity  it  towers  sublime, 

— Winter's  eternal  palace,  built  by  Time  : 

All  human  structures  by  his  touch  are  borne 

Dow n  to  the  dust ; — moiuitains  themselves  are  worn 

With  his  light  footsteps ;  fiere  for  ever  grows. 

Amid  the  region  of  unmelting  snows, 

A  monument ;  where  every  flake  that  falls, 

Gives  adamantine  firmness  to  the  walls. 

The  sun  beholds  no  mirror,  in  his  race, 

That  shows  a  brighter  image  of  his  face ; 

The  stars,  in  their  nocturnal  vigils,  rest 

Like  signal-fires  on  its  illumined  crest :  \ 

The  gliding  moon  around  the  ramparts  wheels,      ,   j 

And  all  its  magic  lights  and  shades  reveals;  • 

Beneath,  the  tide  with  idle  fury  raves 

To  undermine  it  through  a  thousand  caves ; 

Rent  from  its  roof,  though  thundering  fragments  ofl 

Plunge  to  the  gulf,  immovable  aloft, 

From  age  to  age,  in  air,  o'er  sea,  on  land. 

Its  turrets  heighten,  and  its  piers  expand. 

Midnight  hath  told  his  hour;  the  moon,  yet  young 
Hangs  iji  the  argent  west  her  bow  unstrung ; 
Larger  and  fairer,  as  her  lustre  fades, 
Sparkle  the  slars  amidst  the  deepening  shades : 
Jewels  more  rich  than  night's  regalia  gem 
The  distant  Ice-Blink's  spangled  diadem  ; 
Like  a  new  morn  from  orient  darkness,  there 
Phosphoric  splendors  kindle  in  mid  air. 
As  though  from  heaven's  self-opening  portals  came 
Legions  of  spirits  in  an  orb  of  flame, 
— Flame,  that  from  every  point  an  arrow  sends, 
Far  as  the  concave  firmament  extends : 
Spun  with  the  tissue  of  a  million  lines. 
Glistening  like  gossamer  the  welkin  shines  : 
The  constellations  in  their  pride  look  pale 
Through  the  quick  trembling  brilliance  of  that  veii 
Then  suddenly  converged,  the  meteors  rush 
O'er  the  wide  south ;  one  deep  vermilion  blush 
O'erspreads  Orion  glaring  on  the  flood, 
And  rabid  Sirius  foams  through  fire  and  .blood ; 
Again  the  circuit  of  the  pole  they  range. 
Motion  and  figiore  every  moment  change. 


1  The  tprm  Id- Blink  is  generally  applied  hy  our  mariners  c 
the  nocturnal  illumination  in  the  heavens,  which  denotes  i 
them  the  proximity  of  Ice  mountains.  In  this  place  a  dcscrij 
tion  is  atti'mpted  of  the  most  stupendous  accumulation  of  if 
in  the  known  world,  which  has  been  long  distingui:-hed  by  lb 
peculiar  name  by  the  Danish  navigators. 

244 


GREENLAND. 


6] 


rhrough  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  run, 
)r  blaze  like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  sun ; 
Vide  ether  burns  with  glory,  conliict,  flight, 
^nd  the  glad  ocean  dances  in  the  light. 

The  seaman's  jealous  eye  askance  sarveys 
?hi3  pageantry  of  evanescent  rays, 
Vhile  in  the  horror  of  misgiving  fear 
"few  storms  already  thunder  on  his  ear 
}ut  morning  comes,  and  brings  him  sweet  release  ; 
)ay  shines  and  sets ;  at  evening  all  is  peace : 
Another  and  another  day  is  past ; 
["he  fourth  appears, — the  loveliest  and  the  last ; 
.^he  sails  are  furl'd ;  the  anchor  drags  the  sand  ; 
^he  boat  hath  cross'd  the  creek  ; — the  Brethren  land, 


CANTO  IV. 


ietrospect  of  ancient  Greenland  : — The  discovery 
of  Iceland,  of  Greenland,  of  Wineland. — The 
Norwegian  colonies  on  the  eastern  and  western 
coasts  of  Greenland  ;  the  appearance  of  the  Skrael- 
lings,  or  modern  Greenlanders,  in  the  west,  and 
the  destruction  of  the  Norwegian  settlers  in  that 
quarter. 


Here  while  in  peace  the  weary  Pilgrims  rest, 
■"urn  we  our  voyage  from  the  new-found  west, 
•ail  up  the  current  of  departed  time, 
:i.nd  seek  along  its  banks  that  vanish'd  clime, 
liy  ancient  scalds  in  Runic  verse  renown'd, 
low  like  old  Babylon  no  longer  found. 
-"Oft  was  I  weary  when  I  toil'd  at  thee ;" ' 
^his  on  an  oar  abandon'd  to  the  sea, 
I'orae  hand  had  graven  : — From  what  founder'd  boat 
|t  fell — how  long  on  ocean's  v^-aves  afloat, 
I— Who  mark'd  it  with  that  melancholy  line, 

ifo  record  tells  : Greenland  !  such  fate  was  thine  : 

iVhate'er  thou  wast,  of  thee  remains  no  more 
Phan  a  brief  legend  on  a  foundling  oar ; 
'ii.nd  he,  whose  song  would  now  revive  thy  fame 
irasps  but  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  name. 

■;  From  Asia's  fertile  w'omb,  when  Time  was  young, 

|k.nd  earth  a  wreck,  the  sires  of  nations  sprung  ; 

|ri  Shinar's  land  of  rivers.  Babel's  tower 

jltood  the  lorn  relic  of  their  scalter'd  power  ; 

Jl  broken  pillar,  snapt  as  from  the  spheres, 

lilow- wasting  through  the  silent  lapse  of  years, 

jVhile  o'er  the  regions,  by  the  flood  destroy'd. 

The  builders  breathed  new  life  throughout  the  void, 

;ioul,  passion,  intellect ;  till  blood  of  man 

l^hrough  every  artery  of  Nature  ran  ; 

■)'er  eastern  islands  pour'd  its  quickening  stream, 

Caught  the  warm  crimson  of  the  western  beam, 

iJeneath  the  burning  Line  made  fountains  start 

jn  the  dry  vvilderness  of  Afric's  heart. 


f  1  About  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  an  oar  was 
'rifled  on  the  coast  of  Iceland,  bearing  this  inscription  in  fiu- 

ic  characters : 

Oft  var  ek  dasa,  dur  ek  dro  thik. 

"  Oft  was  I  weary  wheii  I  drew  theeV  This  oar  was  con- 
jectured to  have  been  brousht  from  Enst  Greenland,  a  hun- 
^  red  and  fifty  years  after  the  last  ship  sailed  from  Norway  for 
hat  coast. 

V2 


And  through  the  torpid  north,  with  genial  heat, 
Taught  love's  exhilarating  pulse  to  beat , 
Till  the  great  sun,  in  his  perennial  round, 
Man,  of  all  climes  the  restless  native,  found, 
Pursuing  folly  in  his  vain  career. 
As  if  existence  were  immortal  here  ; 
While  on  the  fathers'  graves  the  sons,  untaught 
By  their  mischance,  the  same  illusions  sought. 
By  gleams  and  shadows  measured  woe  and  bliss, 
As  though  unborn  for  any  world  but  this. 

Five  thousand  years,  unvisited,  unknown, 
Greenland  lay  slumbering  in  the  frozen  zone, — 
While  heaven's  resplendent  host  pursued  their  \i'ay 
To  light  the  wolf  and  eagle  to  their  prey. 
And  tempests  o'er  the  main  their  terrors  spread 
To  rock  Leviathan  upon  his  bed : — 
Ere  Ingolf  his  undaunted  flag  unfurl'd 
To  search  the  secrets  of  the  polar  w^orld. » 
'T  was  Liberty,  that  fires  the  coldest  veins, 
And  exile,  famine,  death,  prefers  to  chains  ; 
'T  was  Liberty,  through  floods  unplow'd  before, 
That  led  his  gallant  crew  from  Norway's  shore  ; 
They  cut  their  cable,  and  in  thunder  broke, 
With  their  departing  oars,  the  tyrant's  yoke  ; 
The  deep  their  country,  and  their  bark  their  home, 
A  floating  isle,  on  which  they  joy'd  to  roam 
Amidst  immensity ;  with  waves  and  wind. 
Now  sporting  and  now  wrestling  ; — unconfined. 
Save  by  the  blue  surrounding  firmament. 
Full,  yet  for  ever  widening,  as  they  went : 
Thus  sail'd  those  mariners,  unheeding  where 
They  found  a  port,  if  Freedom  anchor'd  there. 

By  stars  that  never  set,  their  course  they  steer'd. 
And  northward  with  indignant  impulse  veer'd, 
For  sloth  had  luU'd  and  luxury  o'errun. 
And  bondage  seized,  the  realms  that  loved  the  sun. 
At  length  by  mountain-ice,  with  perils  strange. 
Menaced,  repell'd  and  forced  their  track  to  change, 
They  bade  the  unimprison'd  raven  fly, 
A  living  compass  through  the  chartless  sky : 
Up  to  the  zenith,  swift  as  fire,  he  soar'd, 
Through  the  clear  boundless  atmosphere  explored 
The  dim  horizon  strelch'd  beneath  his  sight ; 
Then  to  the  west  full-onward  shot  his  flight  : 
Thither  they  follow;  till  from  Thule's  rocks. 
Around  the  bird  of  tempests  rose  the  flocks 
Of  screaming  sea-fowl,  widening  ring  o'er  ring. 
Till  heaven  grew  dark ;  then  wheeling  on  the  wing 
Landward  they  whiten  all  the  rocks  below. 
Or  diving  melt  into  the  gulf  like  snow. 
Pleased  with  the  proud  discovery,  Ingolf  gave 
His  lintel  and  his  door-posts  to  the  wave, 


1  Among  numerous  incoherent  traditions,  it  is  recorded,  that 
Iceland  was  first  discovered  by  one  Flukko,  a  pirate,  who  be- 
ing bewildered  at  sea,  let  fly  (as  was  the  custom  of  the  Nor 
wegians  in  such  extremities)  a  raven,  which,  sotiring  to  a  grea 
elevation,  discerned  land,  and  made  for  it.  Flokko  followed, 
and  arriving  at  a  mountainous  coast  covered  wiih  snow  and 
glaciers,  called  it  Iceland.  Some  time  afterwards,  about  the 
year  874,  Ingolf,  a  Norwegian  earl,  with  his  vassals,  escaping 
from  the  tyranny  of  Harold  Harfagar,  pursued  the  same 
course  as  Flokko,  and,  by  the  same  experiment  with  a  raven, 
discovered  Iceland  :  which  he  and  his  followers  peopled,  and 
there  he  established  a  commonwealth  that  reflocted  bonoT  Oil 
an  age  of  barbaiism. 

215 


02 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Divining  as  they  drifted  to  the  strand 

The  will  of  destiny, — the  place  to  land.' 

There  on  a  homeless  soil  his  foot  he  jtlaced, 

Framed  his  hut-palace,  colonized  the  waste. 

And  ruled  his  horde  with  patriarchal  sway ; 

— Where  justice  reigns,  'tis  freedom  to  obey  : 

And  there  his  race,  in  long  succession  blest 

(Like  generations  in  the  eagle's  nest, 

Ujxju  their  own  hereditary  rock), 

Flourish'd,  invincible  to  every  shock 

Of  lime,  chance,  foreign  force,  or  civil  rage ; 

A  noble  dynasty  from  age  to  age ; 

And  Iceland  shone,  for  generous  lore  renown'd, 

A  northern  light,  when  all  was  gloom  around. 

Ere  long  by  brave  adventurers  on  the  tide, 
A  new  Hesperian  region  was  descried. 
Which  fancy  deem'd,  or  fable  feign'd  so  fair, 
Fleets  from  old  Norway  pour'd  their  '='ettlers  there, 
Who  traced  and  peopled  far  that  double  shore, 
Round  whose  repelling  rocks  two  oceans  roar, 
Till  at  the  southern  promontory,  tost 
By  tempests,  each  is  in  its  rival  lost. 
Thus  Greenland  (so  that  arctic  world  they  named) 
Was  planted,  and  to  utmost  Calpe  famed 
For  wealth  exhaustless,  which  her  seas  could  boast, 
And  prodigies  of  nature  on  her  coast ; 
Where,  in  the  green  recess  of  every  glen. 
The  House  of  Prayer  o'ertopt  th'  abodes  of  men. 
And  flocks  and  cattle  -grazed  by  summer-streams, 
That  track'd  the  valleys  with  meandering  gleams : 
Wliile  on  the  mountains  ice  eternal  frovvn'd. 
And  growing  glaciers  deepen'd  tow'rds  the  ground, 
Year  after  year,  as  centuries  roll'd  away, 
Nor  lost  one  moment  till  that  judgment-day. 
When  eastern  Greenland  from  the  world  was  rent, 
Ingulfd, — or  fix'd  one  frozen  continent.  ^ 

*T  were  long  and  dreary  to  recount  in  rhyme 
The  crude  traditions  of  that  long-lost  clime. 
To  sing  of  wars,  by  barbarous  chieftains  waged. 
In  which  as  fierce  and  noble  passions  raged. 
Heroes  as  subtle,  bold,  remorseless,  fought. 
And  deeds  as  dark  and  terrible  were  wrought, 
As  round  Troy's  walls  became  the  splendid  themes 
Of  Homer's  song,  and  Jove's  Olympian  dreams  ; 
When  giant-prowess,  in  the  iron  field. 
With  single  arm  made  phalanx'd  legions  yield ; 
When  battle  was  but  massacre, — the  strife 
Of  murderers, — steel  to  steel,  and  life  to  life. 
— Who  follows  Homer  takes  the  field  too  late  ; 
Though  stout  as  Hector,  sure  of  Hector's  fate, 
A  wound  as  from  Achilles'  spear  he  feels. 
Falls,  and  adorns  the  Grecian's  chariot-wheels. 

Nor  stay  we  monkish  legends  to  rehearse ; 
To  build  their  cloister-walls  in  Gothic  verse  ; 

1  This  device  of  superstition  is  borrowed  from  the  tradition 
concerning  Ingolf,  and  prob-ibly  the  same  was  frequently  em- 
ployed by  the  northern  rovers,  leaving  their  native  country, 
and  seekini?  a  home  in  strange  lands. 

2  The  extravagant  accounts  of  the  fertility  of  ancient  Green- 
land need  not  be  particularized  here.  Some  of  the  annals 
state,  that  the  best  wheat  grew  to  perfection  in  the  valleys; 
that  the  forests  were  extensive  and  luxuriant:  flocks  and  herds 
were  numerous,  and  very  large  and  fat,  etc.  At  St.  Thomas's 
C'loister  there  was  a  natural  fountain  of  hot  water  (a  eeyaer) 
which,  bems  conveyed  by  pipes  into  all  the  apartments  of  the 
monks,  ministered  to  their  comfort  in  many  ways.  Adjoining 
this  cloister  there  was  a  richly  cultivated  garden,  through 
which  d  warm  rivulet  flowed,  and  rendered  the  soil  so  fertile, 
that  it  produced  the  most  beautiful  flowers,  and  the  most  deli- 
cious &uits. 


Of  groves  and  gardens,  wine  and  music  tell ; 
Fresh  roses  breathing  round  the  hermit's  cell. 
And  baths,  in  which  Diana's  nymphs  might  lave, 
— From  earth's  self-opening  veins  the  blood-wa 

wave, 
Whose  genial  streams,  amidst  disparted  ice, 
JMade  laps  of  verdure ;  like  those  isles  of  spice 
In  eastern  seas  ;  or  rich  oases,  graced 
With  flowers  and  fountains,  in  the  Libyan  waste. 

Rather  the  muse  would  stretch  a  mightier  win| 
Of  a  new  world  the  earliest  dawn  to  sing ; 
How, — long  ere  Science,  in  a  dream  of  thought, 
Earth's  younger  daughter  to  Columbus  brought, 
And  sent  him,  like  the  Faerie  Prince,  in  quest 
Of  that  "  bright  virgin  throned  in  the  west : "  • 
— Greenland's  bold  sons,  by  instinct,  sallied  forth 
On  barks,  like  ice-bergs  drifting  from  the  north, 
Cross'd  without  magnet  undiscover'd  seas. 
And.  all  surrendering  to  the  stream  and  breeze, 
Touch'd  on  the  line  of  that  twin-bodied  land, 
That  stretches  forth  to  either  pole  a  hand, 
From  arctic  wilds,  that  see  no  winter-sun. 
To  where  the  oceans  of  the  world  are  one. 


1  Spenser  introduces  Prince  Arthur  as  traversing  the  w( 
in  search  of  his  mistress  Gloriana,  whom  he  had  only  seei. 
a  dream.  The  discovery  of  a  region  in  the  west,  by  the  Grp 
land  Norwegians,  about  the  year  1000,  and  intercourse  m: 
tained  with  it  for  li20  years  afterwards,  may  be  considen 
the  most  curious  fact  or  fable  connected  with  the  histor. 
these  colonists.  The  reason  why  it  was  called  Winelani 
given  in  the  sequel. 

An  Icelander,  named  Bioem,  in  the  year  1(X)1,  following 
father,  who  had  emigrated  to  Greenland,  is  said  to  have  I 
driven  by  a  storm  to  the  south-west,  where  he  discoverc 
fine  champaign  country  covered  with  forests.    He  did  not 
ry  long  there,  but  made  the  best  of  his  way  back  again,  no 
east,  for  Greenland,  which  he  reached  in  safety.     The  tid 
of  his  adventure  being  rumored  abroad  there,  one  Leif  the 
of  Eric  thp  Red,  a  famous  navigator,  being  ambitious  of 
quiring  fame  by  discovering  and  planting  new  lands,  fitted 
a  vessel,  with  thirty-five  men,  and  sailed  with  Bioem  on  bd 
in  search  of  the  south-west  country.    They   arrived,  in 
time,  at  a  low  woody  coast,  and  sailed  up  a  rivertoaspac 
lake,  which  communicated  by  it  with  the  sea.     The  soil    i 
exceeding  fruitful,  the  waters  abounded  with  fish,  particul  ' 
salmon,  and  the  climate  was  mild.    Leif  and  his  party  wir 
ed  there,  and  observed  that  on  the  shortest  day  the  sun  i  ^ 
about  eight  o'clock,  which  may  correspond  with  the  ft 
ninth  degree  of  latitude,  and  denotes  the  situation  of  N 
foundland.  or  the  river  St.  Lawrence  in  Canada. — When 
had  built  their  huts,  after  landing,  they  one  day  missed  a  ( 
man  mariner  named  Tyrker,  whom,  after  a  long  search,    ■ 
found  in  the  woods,  dancing  with  delight.    On  being  a: 
what  made  him  so  merry,  he  answered,  that  he  had  been 
ing  such  grapes  of  which  wine  was  made  in  his  native  ci,; 
try.    When  Leif  saw  and  tasted  the  fruit  himself,  he  Ci  i 
the  new  region  Viinland.  or   Wineland.    Crantz,  who^g'i 
this  account,  on  various  authorities,  adds  in  a  note,  that  "   1 
flavored  wild  grapes  are  known  to  grow  in  the  forests  of  C 
da,  but  no  sood  wine  has  been  produced  from  them,  "—f  ' 
the  return  of  Leif  in  Greenland,  many  voyages  were  undt  ■ 
ken  to  Wineland.  and  some  colonies  established  there.     '■ 
Thorjiii,  an  Icelander,  who  had  married  a  Greenland  hei  > 
Gudrid,  the  widow  of  the  third  son  of  Eric  the  Red,  by  w  i 
he   obtained   the   inheritance   of  Wineland,   ventured  thi.i 
with  sixty-five  men  and  five  women  :  taking  cattle  and  in  ? 
ments  of  husbandry  with  them,  for  the  purpose  of  buil  ( 
and  planting.    The  natives  (probably  the  E.^Qvirnaui)  f<  « 
them  thus  settled,  and  were  glad  to  barter  with  their  furs  t 
skins  in  exchange  for  iron  instruments,  etc.    One  of  these  : 
j  barians.  however,  having  stolen    an  ax,  was  dolt  enoua  < 
I  try  its  edge  on  his  companion's  skull,  which  cost  the    'i 
I  wretch  his  life  ;  whereupon  a  thir.l,  wiser  than  either,  tl  ' 
j  the  murderous  weapon  into  the  sea.— Commerce  with  \^  f 
land  is  reported  to  have  been  carried  ou  for  upwards  ( J 
1  hundred  years  afterwards.  ^ 


GREENLAND. 


^ 


A.nd  round  Magellan's  Straits.  Fuego's  shore, 
Atlantic,  Indian,  and  Pacific  roar. 

^  >    Regions  of  beauty  there  these  rovers  found, 
The  flowery  hills  with  emerald  woods  were  crown'd  ; 
Spread  o'er  the  vast  savannas,  buffalo  herds 
Ranged  without  master ;  and  the  bright- wing'd  birds 
Made  gay  the  sunshine  as  they  glanced  along, 
Or  turn'd  the  air  to  music  with  their  song. 

-  1    Here  from  his  mates  a  German  youth  had  stray'd, 
Where  the  broad  river  cleft  the  forest  glade ; 
Swarming  with  alligator-shoals,  the  flood 
Blazed  in  the  sun,  or  moved  in  clouds  of  blood  ; 
The  v\ild  boar  rustled  headlong  through  the  brake  ; 
Like  a  live  arrow  leapt  the  rattle-snake  ; 

■  The  uncouth  shadow  of  the  climbing  bear 
I^rawl'd  on  the  grass,  while  he  aspired  in  air ; 
Anon  with  hoofs,  like  hail,  the  green-wood  rang, 

■  Among  the  scattering  deer  a  panther  sprang: 
irhe  stripling  fear'd  not, — yet  he  trod  with  awe, 
A.S  if  enchantment  breathed  o'er  all  he  saw, 
rill  in  his  path  uprose  a  wilding  vine : 

—Then  o'er  his  memory  rush'd  the  noble  Rhine ; 
"■  *fIome  and  its  joys,  with  fullness  of  delight, 
'  |5o  rapt  his  spirit,  so  beguiled  his  sight, 
":]  That  in  those  glens  of  savage  salitude, 
'.  i^''ineyards  and  corn-fields,  towns  and  spires  he  vievv'd, 
1  And  through  the  image-chamber  of  his  soul, 
''  The  days  of  other  years  like  shadows  stole; 
■*  ;A.ll  that  he  once  had  been  again  he  grew, 
:,  jrhrough  every  stage  of  life  he  pass'd  anew  ; 
V.  (The  playmates  of  his  infancy  were  there, 
5  I^Vith  dimpled  cheeks,  blue  eyes,  and  flaxen  hair; 
•;  The  blithe  companions  of  his  riper  youth, 
J  And  one  whose  heart  was  love,  whose  soul  was  truth. 
1  (—When  the  quick-mingling  pictures  of  that  dream 
i  [Like  broken  scenery  on  a  troubled  stream, 
•  jiVhere  sky  and  landscape,  light  and  darkness,  run 
.'  jThrough  widening  circles),  harmonized   in  one ; 
■J  ^is  father's  cot  appear'd,  with  vine-leaves  drest, 
i  And  clusters  pendent  round  the  swallow's  nest; 
'•  Fn  front  the  little  garden,  at  whose  gate, 
,  |\raidst  their  progeny  his  parents  sate, 
.:  (^e  only  absent ; — but  his  mother's  eye 
?  (^k'd  through  a  tear ; — she  reach'd  him  w-ith  a  sigh  : 

Then  in  a  moment  vanish 'd  lime  and  space, 

■  jVnd  with  a  shout  he  rush'd  to  her  embrace ; 

;',  flound  hills  and  dales  the  joyful  tidings  spread, 
4  Ml  ran  to  welcome  Tyrker  from  the  dead. 

■  with  bliss  inebriate,  in  that  giddy  trance, 

:  \ie  led  his  waltzing  partner  through  the  dance; 
l^nd  while  he  pluck'd  the  grapes  that  blush'd  at  hand, 
Trod  the  rich  wine-press  in  his  native  land, 
[iuafT'd  the  full  flowing  goblet,  loosed  his  tongue, 

nd  songs  of  vintage,  harvest,  battle  sung. 
tVt  length  his  shipmates  came  ;  their  laughter  broke 
^he  gay  delusion  ;  in  alarm  he  'w-oke  ; 
iTransport  to  silent  melancholy  changed  ; 
|Vt  once  from  love,  and  joy,  and  hope  estranged, 
p'er  his  blank  mind,  with  cold  bereaving  spell, 
ame  that  heart-sickness,  which  no  tongue  can  tell ; 
Felt  when,  in  foreign  climes,  'midst  sounds  un- 
known, 

Ve  hear  the  speech  or  music  of  our  own, 
iloused  to  delight  from  drear  abstraction  start, 
!^d  feel  OUT  country  beating  at  our  heart ; 


=  t 


The  rapture  of  a  moment ; — in  its  birth 

It  perishes  for  ever  from  the  earth  ; 

And  dumb,  like  shipwreck'd  mariners,  we  stand, 

Eyeing  by  turns  the  ocean  and  the  land, 

Breathless  ;— till  tears  the  struggling  thought  release, 

And  the  lorn  spirit  weeps  itself  to  peace. 

Wineland  the  glad  discoverers  call'd  that  shore. 
And  back  the  tidings  of  its  riches  bore  ; 
But  soon  return'd  with  colonizing  bands, 
— Men  that  at  home  would  sigh  for  unknown  lands  ; 
Men  of  all  weathers,  fit  for  every  toil, 
War,  commerce,  pastime,  peace,  adventure,  spoil ; 
Bold  master-spirits,  where  they  touch'd  they  gain'd 
Ascendance  ;  where  they  fix'd  their  foot,  they  reign'd- 
Both  coasts  they  long  inherited,  though  wide 
Dissever'd  ;   stemming  to  and  fro  the  tide. 
Free  as  the  Syrian  dove  explores  the  sky, 
Their  helm  their  hope,  their  compass  in  their  eye. 
They  found  at  will,  where'er  they  pleased  to  roam, 
The  ports  of  strangers  or  their  northern  home. 
Still  'midst  tempestuous  seas  and  zones  of  ice. 
Loved  as  their  own,  their  unlosi  Paradise. 
— Yet  was  their  Paradise  for  ever  lost  : 
War,  famine,  pestilence,  the  power  of  frost, 
Their  woes  combining,  wither'd  from  the  earth 
This  late  creation,  like  a  timeless  birth, 
The  fruit  of  age  and  weakness,  forced  to  light, 
Breathing  awhile, — relapsing  into  night. 

Ages  had  seen  the  vigorous  race,  that  sprung 
From  A'orway's  stormy  forelands,  rock'd  when  young 
In  ocean's  cradle,  hardening  as  they  rose 
Like  mountain-pines  amidst  perennial  snows  ; 
— Ages  had  seen  these  sturdiest  sons  of  Time 
Strike  root  and  flourish  in  that  ruflian  clime. 
Commerce  with  lovelier  lands  and  wealthier  hold, 
Yet  spurn  the  lures  of  luxury  and  gold. 
Beneath  the  umbrage  of  the  Gallic  vine. 
For  moonlight  snows  and  caveni-shelter  pine, 
Turn  from  Campanian  fields  a  lofty  eye 
To  gaze  upon  the  glorious  Alps,  and  sigh. 
Remembering  Greenland  ;  more  and  more  endear'd, 
x\s  far  and  farther  from  its  shores  they  stecr'd ; 
Greenland  their  world, — and  all  was  strange  beside  ; 
Elsewhere  they  wandered ;  here  they  lived  and  died. 

At  length  a  swarthy  tribe,  without  a  name. 
Unknown  the  point  of  windward  whence  they  came; 
The  power  by  which  stupendous  gulfs  they  cross'd, 
Or  compass'd  wilds  of  everlasting  frost, 
Alike  mysterious  ; — found  their  sudden  way 
To  Greenland;  pour'd  along  the  western  bay 
Their  straggling  families :   and  seized  the  soil 
For  their  domain,  the  ocean  for  their  spoil. 
Skraellings  the  Normans  call'd  these  hordes  in  scorn, 
That  seem'd  created  on  the  spot, — though  born 
In  trans-Atlantic  climes,  and  thither  brought 
By  paths  as  covert  as  the  birth  of  thought ; 
They  were  at  once ; — the  swallow-tribes  in  spring 
Thus  daily  midtiply  upon  the  wing. 
As  if  the  air,  their  element  of  flight, 
Brought  forth  new  broods  from  darkness  every  night, 
Slipp'd  from  the  secret  hand  of  Providence, 
They  come  we  see  not  how,  nor  know  we  whence. 


1  The  ancestors  of  the  modern  inhabitants  first  appeared  <u: 

247 


64 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  stunted,  stern,  uncouth,  amphibious  stock, 
Hewn  from  the  living  marble  of  the  rock, 
Or  sprung  from  mermaids,  and  in  ocean's  bed, 
With  ores  and  seals,  in  sunless  caverns  bred, 
They  might  have  held,  from  unrecorded  time, 
Sole  patrimony  in  that  hideous  clime. 
So  lithe  their  limbs,  so  fenced  their  frames  to  bear 
The  intensest  rigors  of  the  polar  air  ; 
Nimble,  and  muscular,  and  keen  to  run 
The  reindeer  down  a  circuit  of  the  sun ; 
To  climb  the  slippery  cliffs,  explore  their  cells, 
And  storm  and  sack  the  sea-birds'  citadels  ; 
In  bands,  through  snows,  the  mother-bear  to  trace. 
Slay  with  their  darts  the  cubs  in  her  embrace, 
Anil  while  she  lick'd  their  bleeding  wounds,  to  brave 
Her  deadliest  vengeance  in  her  inmost  cave : 
Train'd  with  inimitable  skill  to  float. 
Each,  balanced  in  his  bubble  of  a  boat, 
With  dexterous  paddle  steering  through  the  spray, 
With  poised  harpoon  to  strike  his  plunging  prey, 
As  though  the  skiff,  the  seaman,  oar,  and  dart 
Were  one  compacted  body,  by  one  heart 
With  instinct,  motion,  pulse,  empower'd  to  ride, 
A  human  Nautilus  upon  the  tide ; 


the  western  coast  of  Greenland  in  the  fourteenth  century,  and 
are  generally  supposed  to  have  overpowered  the  few  Norwe- 
gians scattered  in  that  quarter.  They  were  called  S/craellives, 
a  word  of  uncertain  etymology,  but  most  probably  a  corruption 
of  Karallit  or  People,  by  which  they  designated  themselves. 
Of  their  origin  nothing  can  be  ascertained.  U  seems,  on  Xhc 
whole,  not  incredible  (from  evidence  and  arguments  which  need 
not  be  quoted  here),  that  they  are  the  descendants  of  Tartar- 
ean rovers,  gradually  emigrating  from  the  heart  of  Asia,  cross 
ing  over  into  West  America,  traversing  the  northern  latitudes 
of  that  continent,  and  settling  or  wanderinsr,  as  suited  their 
convenience,  till  the  foremost  hordes  reached  Canada  and  Lab- 
rador :  from  whence  the  first  Skraellings  may  have  found  a  pas- 
sage, by  land  or  sea,  to  Greenland.  That  the  Greenlanders  are 
of  the  same  stock  with  the  Esquimaux,  is  obvious  from  the  re- 
markable correspondence  between  their  persons,  dress,  habita- 
tions, boats,  and  implements  of  hunting  and  fishing,  as  well  as 
thesimilarity  of  manners,  customs,  superstitions,  and  laneuage. 
Of  these  more  may  be  said  hereafter,  should  the  poem  of  Green- 
land ever  be  completed.  Meanwhile  the  slight  sketch  given  in 
the  context  may  sufilce.  The  following  description  of  a  Green- 
lander's  fishing-boat,  or  kayak,  will,  however,  be  useful  to  il- 
lustrate the  passage.  The  kayak  is  six  yards  in  length,  pointed 
at  the  head  and  stern,  and  shaped  like  a  weaver's  shuttle  ;  it  is 
at  the  same  time  scarcely  a  foot  and  a  half  broad  over  the  mid- 
dle, and  not  more  than  a  foot  deep.  It  is  built  of  a  slender  skel- 
eton of  wood,  consisting  of  a  keel,  and  long  side-laths,  with 
cross-ribs,  like  hoops,  but  not  quite  round.  The  whole  is  cov- 
ered with  seal's  skin.  In  the  middle  of  this  covering  there  is  a 
round  aperture,  supported  with  a  strong  rim  of  wood  or  bone. 
The  Greetilander  slips  into  the  cavity  with  his  feet,  and  sits  down 
upon  a  board  covered  with  soft  skin ;  he  then  tucks  his  water- 
pelt,  or  great  coat,  so  tight  about  him  (the  rim  of  the  opening 
forming  a  girdle  round  his  loins),  that  no  water  can  penetrate 
into  his  little  skiflT.  His  lance,  harpoon,  and  fishing-tackle,  are 
all  arranged  in  due  order  before  him.  His  pautik,  or  oar  (made 
of  red  deal,  and  strengthened  with  bone  inlaid),  he  uses  with 
admirable  dexterity.  This,  except  when  he  is  using  his  weap- 
ons, he  grasps  with  both  hands  in  the  middle,  striking  the  water 
on  either  side  alternately,  by  which  means  he  can  sail  at  the 
.nte  of  twenty  or  even  twenty-four  leagues  a  day.  In  his  kayak 
the  Greenlander  fears  no  storm,  so  long  as  he  can  keep  his  oar, 
which  enables  him.  to  sit  upright  among  the  roughest  breakers, 
or  if  overturned,  while  the  head  is  downward  under  water,  with 
one  stroke  he  can  recover  himself;  but  if  he  loses  his  oar,  in  a 
high  sea,  he  loses  all.  No  European  has  ever  yet  been  able  to 
learn  to  manage  a  kayak  except  in  calm  weather,  and  when  he 
liad  nothing  to  do  but  to  row:  to  fish  in  it  has  been  found  im- 
practicable to  any  but  the  natives  themselves,  trained  from  their 
infancy  to  all  the  hardy  exercises  which  constituted,  before  the 
introduction  of  Christianity,  the  whole  education  of  tlie  poor 
Itarbarians 


Or  with  a  fleet  of  Kayaks  to  a^jsail 

The  desperation  of  the  stranded  whale, 

When  wedged  'tvvixt  jagged  rocks  he  writhes  and  roll 

In  agony  among  the  ebbing  shoals, 

Lashing  the  waves  to  foam ;  until  the  flood. 

From  wounds,  like  geysers,  seems  a  bath  of  blood, 

Echo  all  night  dumb-pealing  to  his  roar ; 

Till  morn  beholds  him  slain  along  the  shore. 

Of  these, — hereafter  should  the  lyre  be  strung 
To  arctic  themes, — may  glorious  days  be  sung ; 
Now  be  our  task  the  sad  reverse  to  tell, 
How  in  their  march  the  nobler  Normans  fell ; ' 
— Whether  by  dire  disease,  that  turn'd  the  breath 
Of  bounteous  Heaven  to  pestilence  and  death, 
In  number,  strength,  and  spirit  worn  away. 
Their  lives  became  the  cool  assa.ssin's  prey ; 
— Or  in  the  battle-field,  as  Skraellings  boast, 
These  pigmies  put  to  flight  their  giant-host, 
When  front  to  front  on  scowling  clifis  they  stood, 
And  shot  their  barbs  athwart  the  parting  flood; 
Arrow  smote  arrow,  dart  encoiuiter'd  dart. 
From  hand  to  hand,  impaling  heart  for  heart; 
Till  spent  their  missiles ;  quick  as  in  a  dream 
The  images  are  changed ;  acro.ss  the  stream 
The  Skraellings  rush'd,  the  precipices  scaled ; 
— O'erwhelm'd  by  multitudes  the  Normans  fail'd  ; 
A  scatter'd  remnant  to  the  south  retired. 
But  one  by  one  along  their  route  expired  : 
They  perish'd ; — History  can  no  more  relate 
Of  their  obscure  and  unlamented  fate ; 
They  perish'd  ; — yet  along  that  western  shore 
Where  Commerce  spread  her  colonies  of  yore, 
Ruins  of  temples  and  of  homes  are  traced, 
— Steps  of  magnificence  amidst  the  waste, 
Where  time  halh  trod,  and  left  those  wrecks  to  sho  < 
That  life  hath  been,  where  all  is  Death  below.        ( 


CANTO  V. 


The  depopulation  of  the  Norwegian  Colonics  on  th 
eastern  coast  of  Greenland,  and  the  abandonme; 
of  intercourse  with  it  from  Europe,  in  consequen«i 
of  the  increase  of  the  arctic  ices,  about  the  begi' 
ning  of  the  fifteenth  century. 


L.^UNCH  on  the  gulf  my  little  Greenland  bark  J; 
Bear  me  through  scenes  unutlerablv  dark ; 
Scenes  with  the  mystery  of  Nature  seal'd, 
Nor  till  the  day  of  doom  to  be  reveal'd  : 
What  though  the  spirits  of  the  arctic  gales 
Freeze  round  thy  prow,  or  fight  against  thy  sails, 
Safe  as  Arion,  whom  the  dolphin  bore, 
Enaraour'd  of  his  music,  to  the  shore. 


1  Tlie  incidents  alluded  to  in  this  clause  are  presumed  to  hai 
occasioned  the  extinction  of  the  Norwegian  colonists  on  t 
western  coast  of  Greenland.  Crantz  says,  that  there  is  a  d 
trict  on  Ball's  River,  called  Pissilcsarbik,  or  thp.  place  of  arro 
where  it  is  believed,  that  the  Pkraellinss  and  Norwegians  foug 
a  batile,  in  which  the  latter  were  defpated.  The  modern  Gree 
landers  affirm,  that  the  name  is  derived  from  the  circumstan 
of  the  parties  having  shot  their  arrows  at  one  another  from  c 
posite  banks  of  the  stream.  Many  rndera,  or  ruins  of  aoci« 
buildings,  principally  supposed  to  have  been  churches,  t 
found  along  the  coast,  from  Disko  Bay  to  Cape  FarewtJ. 

248 


GREENLAND. 


65 


Dn  thee  adventuring  o'er  an  unknown  main, 

[  raise  to  warring  elements  a  strain 

J[  kindred  harmony : — O  lend  your  breath, 

i'e  tempests  !  while  I  sing  this  reign  of  death, 

Litter  dark  sayings  of  the  days  of  old, 

n  parables  upon  my  harp  unfold 

Deeds  perish"d  from  remembrance ;  truth,  array'd, 

Jke  heaven  by  night,  in  emblematic  shade, 

.Vhcn  shines  the  horoscope,  and  star  on  star, 

ly  what  they  are  not,  led  to  what  they  are  ; 

Vtonis,  that  twinkle  in  an  infant's  eye, 

\.i-e  worlds,  suns,  systems  in  th'  unbounded  sky: 

rhiis,  tlie  few  fabled  woes  my  strains  create 

^re  hieroglyphics  in  a  book  of  Fate, 

^nJ  while  the  shadowy  symbols  I  unroll, 

maiiination  reads  a  direr  scroll. 

VaKe,  ye  wild  visions  I  o'er  the  northern  deep, 

)n  clouds  and  winds,  like  warrior-spectres  sweep  ; 

;ho\v  by  what  plagues  and  hurricanes  destroy'd, 

^  breathing  realm  became  a  torpid  void. 

The  floods  are  raging,  and  the  gales  blow  high, 
vOW  as  a  dungeon-roof  impends  the  sky ; 
'risoners  of  hope,  between  the  clouds  and  waves, 
'ix  fearless  sailors  man  yon  boat,  that  braves 
'eril  redoubling  upon  peril  past: 
-From  childhood  nurslings  of  the  wayward  blast, 
vlol't  as  o'er  a  buoyant  arch  they  go, 
V\v  i^e  key-stone  breaks ; — as  deep  they  plunge  below 
nvielding  though  the  strength  of  man  be  vain; 
[niggling  though  borne  like  surf  along  the  main : 
1  front  a  battlement  of  rocks ;  in  rear, 
iilow  on  billow  bounding ;  near,  more  near, 
'hey  verge  to  ruin ; — life  and  death  depend 
a  the  next  impulse  ;  shrieks  and  prayers  ascend  ; 
Then,  like  the  fish  that  mounts  on  drizzling  wings, 
heer  from  the  gulf  the  ejected  vessel  springs, 
nd  grounds  on  inland  ice,  beyond  the  track 
f  hissing  foam-wreaths,  whence  the  tide  roU'd  back 
hen  ere  that  tide,  returning  to  the  charge, 
wallows  the  wreck,  the  captives  are  at  large. 
n  either  hand  steep  hills  obstruct  their  path ; 
ehind,  the  ocean  roaring  in  his  wrath, 
[ad  as  a  Libyan  wilderness  by  night, 
.'iih  all  its  lions  up,  in  chase  or  fight. 
he  fugitives  right  onward  shun  the  beach, 
or  tarry  till  die  inmost  cove  they  reach, 
ecluded  in  the  labyrinthine  dell, 
ike  the  last  hollow^  of  a  spiral  shell, 
here,  with  the  ax  or  knife  which  haste  could  save, 
hey  build  a  house  ; — perhaps  they  dig  a  grave  : 
f  solid  snow,  w-ell-squared,  and  piled  in  blocks, 
'illiant  as  hewn  from  alabaster  rocks, 
heir  palace  rises,  narrowing  to  the  roof, 
Ind  freezes  into  marble,  tempest-proof; 
,.  ;ight  closing  round,  within  its  shade  they  creep, 
I  Ind  weary  Nature  sinks  at  once  to  sleep. 

^    Oh!  could  we  walk  amidst  their  dreams,  and  see 
ill  that  they  have  been,  are,  or  wish  to  be. 

[fancy's  world  I — each  at  his  own  fire-side  ; 
16  greets  a  parent :  one  a  new-made  bride  ; 
-   Inother  clasps  his  babe  with  fond  embrace, 
■      smile  in  slumber  mantling  o'er  his  face  ; 
[i  dangers  are  forgotten  in  a  Idss, 
)•  but  remember'd  to  exalt  the  bliss. 
<    32 


— One  wounded  sufferer  wakes,  with  pain  opprest, 

Yet  are  his  thoughts  at  home  among  the  rest ; 

Then  beams  his  eye,  his  heart  dilated  burns, 

Till  the  dark  vigil  to  a  vision  turns. 

That  vision  to  reality ;  and  home 

Is  so  endear'd,  he  vows  no  more  to  roam. 

Ha!  suddenly  he  starts;  with  trembling  lips. 

Salt  shower-drops,  oozing  through  the  roof,  he  sips , 

Aware  that  instant,  yet  alarm'd  too  late, 

— The  sea  hath  burst  its  barrier,  fix'd  their  fate ; 

Escape  impossible  ;  the  tempests  urge 

Through  the  deep  dell  the  inundating  surge ; 

Nor  wall  nor  roof  th'  impetuous  flood  controls, 

Above,  around,  within,  the  deluge  rolls ; 

He  calls  his  comrades ; — ere  their  doom  be  known, 

'T  is  past ; — the  snow-house  utterly  o'erthrown, 

Its  inmates  vanish ;  never  to  be  found, 

Living  or  dead,  on  habitable  ground. 

There  is  a  beauteous  hamlet  in  the  vale ; 
Green  are  the  fields  around  it ;  sweetly  sail 
The  twilight  shadows  o'er  the  darkening  scene. 
Earth,  air,  and  ocean,  all  alike  serene. 
Dipt  in  the  hues  of  sun-set,  wreathed  in  zones. 
The  clouds  are  resting  on  their  mountain-thrones; 
One  peak  alone  exalts  its  glacier  crest, 
A  golden  paradise,  above  the  rest ; 
Thither  the  day  with  lingering  steps  retires, 
And  in  its  own  blue  element  expires ; 
Thus  Aaron  laid  his  gorgeous  robes  aside 
On  Hore-li's  consecrated  top,  and  died. 
The  moon,  meanwhile,  o'er  ocean's  sombre  bed. 
New-risen,  a  thousand  glow-worm  lights  hath  spread, 
From  east  to  west  the  wildfire  splendors  glance, 
And  all  the  billows  in  her  glory  dance  ; 
Till,  in  mid-heaven,  her  orb  might  seem  the  eye 
Of  Providence,  wide-watching  from  the  sky, 
While  Nature  slumbers; — emblem  o£ His  grace, 
Whose  presence  fills  the  infinite  of  space. 

The  clouds  have  left  the  mountains ;  coldly  brighj 
Their  icy  summits  shed  cerulean  light ; 
The  steep  declivities  between  assume 
A  horror  of  unfathomable  gloom : 
The  village  sleeps ; — from  house  to  house,  the  ear 
Of  yonder  sentinel  no  sound  can  hear  : 
A  maniac  ; — he,  while  calmer  heads  repose. 
Takes  his  night-round,  to  tell  the  stars  his  woes  • 
Woes,  which  his  noble  heart  to  frenzy  stung ; 
— He  hath  no  bard,  and  they  remain  unsung. 
A  warrior  once,  victorious  arms  he  bore ; 
And  bears  them  still,  although  his  wars  are  o'er, 
For  'tis  his  boast,  with  shield  and  sword  in  hand. 
To  be  the  guardian  Angel  of  the  land. 
Mark  with  what  stern  solemnity  he  stalks. 
And  to  himself  as  to  a  legion  talks ; 
Now  deep  in  council  with  his  chiefs ;  anon, 
He  starts  as  at  the  trumpet,  leads  them  on. 
And  wins  the  day ; — his  battle-shout  alarms 
None  but  the  infant  in  the  nurse's  arms ; 
Soon  hiish'd,  but  closei  .o  her  side,  it  sleeps  • 
While  he  abroad  his  watch  in  silence  keens 

At  every  door  he  halts,  and  brings  a  sigh. 
But  leaves  a  blessing,  when  he  maroh^^s  by 

249 


66 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  stops;  from  that  low  roof,  a  deadly  groan 

Hath  made  unutterable  anguish  known ; 

A  spirit  into  eternity  hath  pass'd ; 

A  spouse,  a  father,  there  hath  breathed  his  last. 

The  widow  and  her  little  ones  weep  not ; 

In  its  excess  their  misery  is  forgot, 

One  dumb,  dark  moment ; — then  from  all  their  eyes 

Rain  the  salt  tears,  and  loud  their  wailings  rise : 

Ah  !  little  think  that  family  forlorn 

How  brief  the  parting ; — they  shall  meet  ere  morn ! 

For  lo !  the  witness  of  their  pangs  hath  caught 

A  sight  that  startles  madness  into  thought ; 

Back  from  their  gate  unconsciously  he  reels; 

A  resurrection  of  his  soul  he  feels ; 

There  is  a  motion  in  the  air ;  his  eye 

Blinks  as  it  fear'd  the  falling  of  the  sky. 

The  splendid  peak  of  adamantine  ice, 

At  sun-set  like  an  earthly  paradise, 

And  in  the  moon  of  such  empyrean  hue, 

It  seera'd  to  bring  the  unseen  world  to  view; 

— That   splendid    peak,  the    Power   (which  to  the 

spheres 
Had  piled  its  turrets  through  a  thousand  years), 
Touches,  as  lightly  as  the  passing  wind. 
And  the  huge  mass,  o'erbalanced,  undermined, 
And  dislocated  from  its  base  of  snow, 
Slifles  down  the  slope,  majestically  slow, 
Till  o'er  the  precipice,  down  headlong  sent. 
And  in  ten  thousand,  thousand  spangles  rent. 
It  piles  a  hill  where  spread  a  vale  before  : 
— From  rock  to  rock  the  echoes  round  tJie  shore, 
Tell  with  their  deep  artillery  the  fate 
Of  the  whole  \illage,  crush'd  beneath  its  weight. 
— The  sleepers  wake, — their  homes  in  ruins  hurfd,- 
They  wake — from  death  into  another  world. 
The  gazing  maniac,  palsied  into  stone. 
Amidst  the  wreck  of  ice,  survives  alone  ; 
A  sudden  interval  of  reason  gleams, 
Steady  and  clear,  amidst  his  wildering  dreams, 
But  shf)ws  reality  in  such  a  shape, 
'T  were  ranture  back  to  frenzy  to  escape. 
Again  the  clouds  of  desolation  roll, 
Blotting  all  old  remembrance  from  his  soul ; 
Whatever  his  sorrows  or  his  joys  have  been, 
His  spirit  grows  embodied  through  this  scene : 
With  eyes  of  agony,  and  clenching  hands, 
I'ix'd  in  recoil,  a  frozen  form  he  stands. 
And  smit  with  wonder  at  his  people's  doom. 
Becomes  the  monument  upon  tlieir  tomb. 

Behold  a  scene,  magnificent  and  new  ; 
Nor  land  nor  water  meet  th'  excursive  view ; 
The  round  horizon  girds  one  frozen  plain. 
The  mighty  tombstone  of  the  buried  main. 
Where  dark,  and  silent,  and  unfelt  to  flow, 
A  dead  sea  sleeps  with  all  its  tribes  below. 
But  heaven  is  still  itself;  the  deep-blue  sky 
Comes  down  with  smiles  to  meet  the  glancing  eye. 
Though  if  a  keener  sight  its  bound  would  trace. 
The  arch  recedes  through  everlasting  space. 
The  sun,  in  morning  glory,  mounts  his  throne, 
Nor  shines  he  here  in  solitude  unknown  ; 
North,  south,  and  west,  by  dogs  or  reindeer  drawn. 
Careering  sledges  cross  the  unbroken  lawn, 
And  bring,  from  bays  and  forelands  round  the  coast, 
Vouth  licouiy,  valor.  Greenland's  proudest  boast, 


Who  thus,  in  winter's  long  and  social  reign. 
Hold  feasts  and  tournaments  upon  the  main. 
When,  built  of  solid  floods,  his  bridge  extends 
A  highway  o'er  the  gulf  to  meeting  friends. 
Whom  rocks  impassable,  or  winds  and  tide, 
Fickle  and  false,  in  summer  months  divide. 

The  scene  nms  round  with  motion,  rings  with  mirth, 
— No  happier  spot  upon  the  peopled  earth; 
The  drifted  snow  to  dust  the  travellers  beat, 
Th'  uneven  ice  is  flint  beneath  their  feet. 
Here  tents,  a  £ray  encampment,  rise  around. 
Where  music,  song,  and  revelry  resound  ; 
There  the  blue  smoke  upwreathes  a  hundred  spires, 
Where  humbler  groups  have  lit  their  pine-wood  fires. 
Ere  long  they  quit  the  tables ;  knights  and  dames 
Lead  the  blithe  multitude  to  boisterous  games. 
Bears,  wolves,  and  lynxes  yonder  head  the  chase ; 
Here  start  the  harness'd  reindeer  in  the  race  ; 
Borne  without  wheels,  a  flight  of  rival  cars 
Track  the  ice-tlrmament,  like  shooting  stars. 
Right  to  the  goal,  convergmg  as  they  run, 
Tliey  dwindle  through  the  distance  into  one. 
Where  smoother  waves  have  form'd  a  sea  of  glass, 
With  pantomimic  change  the  skaiters  pass ; 
Now  toil  like  ships  'gainst  wmd  and  stream;  then  wheel 
Like  flames  blown  suddenly  asunder ;  reel 
Like  drunkards;  then  dispersed  in  tangents  wide,' 
Away  with  speed  invisible  they  glide. 
Peace  in  their  hearts,  death-weapons  in  their  hands 
Fierce  in  mock-battle  meet  fraternal  bands, 
Whom  the  same  chiefs  ere  while  to  conflict  led, 
When  friends  by  friends,  by  kindred  kindred  bled. 
Here  youthful  rings  with  pipe  and  drum  advance,  -  ; 
And  foot  the  mazes  of  the  giddy  dance ; 
Grey-beard  spectators,  with  illumined  eye, 
Lean  on  their  staves,  and  talk  of  days  gone  by ; 
Cliildren,  who  mimic  all,  from  pipe  and  drum 
To  chase  and  battle,  dream  of  years  to  come. 
Those  years  to  come  the  young  shall  ne'er  boliold ; 
The  days  gone  by  no  more  rejoice  the  old. 

There  is  a  boy,  a  solitary  boy. 
Who  takes  no  part  in  all  this  whirl  of  joy, 
I  Yet  in  the  speechless  transport  of  his  soul. 
He  lives,  and  moves,  and  breathes  throughout  thf 

whole  : 
Him  should  destruction  spare,  the  plot  of  earth. 
That  forms  his  play-ground,  gave  a  poet  birtli, 
Who  on  the  wings  of  his  immortal  lays. 
Thine  heroes,  Greenland !  to  the  stars  shall  raise 
It  must  not  be : — abruptly  from  the  show 
He  turns  his  eyes ;  his  thoughts  are  gone  below 
To  sound  the  depths  of  ocean,  where  his  mind 
•Creates  the  wonders  which  it  cannot  find. 
Listening,  as  oft  he  listens,  in  a  shell. 
To  the  mock  tide's  alternate  fall  and  swell, 
He  kneels  upon  the  ice, — incUnes  his  ear. 
And  hears, — or  does  he  only  seem  to  hear  ? — 
A  sound,  as  though  the  Genius  of  the  Deep 
Heaved  a  long  sigh,  awaking  out  of  sleep. 
He  starts  ; — 't  was  but  a  pulse  within  his  brain ! 
No ; — for  he  feels  it  beat  through  every  vein  ; 
Groan  following  groan  (as  from  a  Giant's  breast. 
Beneath  a  burning  mountain,  ill  at  rest), 
With  awe  ineffable  his  spirit  thrills, 
And  rapture  fires  his  blood,  while  terror  chills 

250 


GREENLAND. 


67 


Tlie  keen  expres&ion  of  his  eye  alarnis 

His  mother;  she  hath  caught  him  in  her  arms, 

And  learn'd  the  cause  ; — that  cause,  no  sooner  known, 

From  hp  to  lip,  o'er  many  a  league  is  Hovvn ; 

Voices  to  voices,  prompt  as  signals,  rise 

In  shrieks  of  consternation  to  the  skies: 

Those  skies,  meanwhile,  with   gathering  darkness 

scowl ; 
Hollow  and  winterly  the  bleak  winds  howl. 
— From  morn  till  noon  had  ether  smiled  serene, 
Save  one  black-belted  cloud,  far  eastward  seen, 
Like  a  snow-mountain ; — there  in  ambush  lay 
Th"  undreaded  tempest,  panting  for  his  prey  : 
That   cloud    by  stealth   hath    tlirough    the  welkin 

spread. 
And  hangs  in  meteor-twilight  over-head ; 
At  foot,  beneath  the  adamantine  floor, 
I/iose  in  their  prison-house  the  surges  roar: 
To  every  eye,  ear,  heart,  the  alarm  is  given. 
And  landward  crowds  (like  flocks  of  sea-fowl  driven. 
When  storms  are  on  the  wing),  in  wild  aflfright, 
On  foot,  in  sledges,  urge  their  panic  flight, 
In  hope  the  refuge  of  the  shore  to  gain 
Ere  the  disruption  of  the  struggling  main. 
Foretold  by  many  a  stroke,  like  lightning  sent 
In  thunder,  through  th'  unstable  continent, 
Which  now,  elastic  on  the  swell  below, 
Riills  high  in  undulation  to  and  fro. 
IM'u,  reindeer,  dogs,  the  giddy  impulse  feel. 
And  jostling  headlong,  back  and  forward  reel: 
While  snow,  sleet,  hail,  or  whirling  gusts  of  wind, 
Exhaust,  bewilder,  stop  the  breath,  and  blind. 
All  is  dismay  and  uproar ;  some  have  found 
Death  for  deliverance,  as  ihey  leap'd  on  ground, 
Swept  back  into  the  flood  ; — but  hope  is  vain : 
Ere  half  the  fugitives  the  beach  can  gain. 
The  fix'd  ice,  severing  from  the  shore,  with  shocks 
Of  earthquake  violence,  bounds  against  the  rocks ; 
Then  suddenly,  while  on  the  verge  they  stand, 
The  whole  recoils  for  ever  from  the  land. 
And  leaves  a  gulf  of  foam  along  the  shore. 
In  which  whoever  plunge  are  seen  no  more. 

Ocean,  meanwhile,  abroad  hath  burst  the  roof 
That  sepulchred  his  waves  ;  he  bounds  aloof 
In  boiling  cataracts,  as  volcanoes  spout 
Their  fiery  fountains,  gush  the  waters  out : 
The  frame  of  ice,  with  dire  explosion  rends. 
And  down  th'  abyss  the  mingled  crowd  descends. 
(Heaven  I  from  this  closing  horror  hide  thy  light ; 
'Cast  thy  thick  mantle  o'er  it,  gracious  Night  I 
jThese  screams  of  mothers  with  their  infants  lost, 
(These  groans  of  agony  from  wretches,  tost 
(On  rocks  and  whirlpools — in  thy  storms  be  drown'd, 
iThe  crash  of  mountain-ice  to  atoms  ground, 
|And  rage  of  elements  ! — while  winds,  that  yell 
Like  demons,  peal  the  universal  knell, 
The  shrouding  waves  around  their  limbs  shall  spread, 
("And  Darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead." 
Their  pangs  are  o'er : — at  morn  the  tempests  cease, 
{And  the  freed  ocean  rolls  himself  to  peace ; 
Broad  to  the  sun  his  heaving  breast  expands, 
He  holds  his  mirror  to  a  hundred  lands ; 
While  cheering  gales  pursue  the  eager  chase 
|0f  billows  round  immeasurable  space.' 


Where  are  the  multitudes  of  yesterday  ? 
x\t  morn  they  came ;  at  eve  they  pass'd  away. 
Yet  some  survive  ; — yon  castellated  pile 
Floats  on  the  surges,  like  a  fairy  isle ; 
Pre-eminent  upon  its  peak,  behold. 
With  walls  of  amethyst  and  roofs  of  gold, 
The  semblance  of  a  city  ;  towers  and  spires 
Glance  in  the  firmament  with  opal  fires ; 
Prone  from  those  heights  pellucid  fountains  flow 
O'er  pearly  meads,  through  emerald  vales  below 
Xo  lovelier  pageant  moves  beneath  the  sky,' 
Nor  one  so  mournful  to  the  nearer  eye ; 
Here,  when  the  bitterness  of  death  had  pass'd 
O'er  others,  with  their  sledge  and  reindeer  cast. 
Five  wretched  ones,  in  dumb  despondence,  wait 
The  lingering  issue  of  a  nameless  fate ; 
A  bridal  party  : — mark  yon  reverend  sage 
In  the  brown  vigor  of  autumnal  age  ; 
His  daughter  in  her  prime ;  the  youth,  who  won 
Her  love  by  miracles  of  prov.  ess  done  ; 
With  these,  two  meet  companions  of  their  joy. 
Her  younger  sister,  and  a  gallant  boy. 
Who  hoped,  like  hi.7n,  a  gentle  heart  to  gain 
By  valorous  enterprise  on  land  or  main. 
— These,  when  the  ocean-pavement  fail'd  their  feel 
Sought  on  a  glacier's  crags  a  safe  retreat. 
But  in  the  shock,  from  its  foundation  torn. 
That  mass  is  slowly  o'er  the  waters  borne. 
An  ice-berg  ! — on  whose  verge  all  day  they  stand 
And  eye  the  blank  horizon's  ring  for  land. 
All  night  around  a  dismal  flame  they  w  eep ; 
Their  sledge,  by  piecemeal,  lights  the  hoary  deep. 
Morn  brings  no  comfort ;  at  her  dawn  expire 
The  latest  embers  of  their  latest  fire ; 
For  w^armth  and  food  the  patient  reindeer  bleeds, 
Happier  in  death  than  those  he  warms  and  feeds. 
— How  long,  by  that  precarious  raft  upbuoy'd. 
They  blindly  drifted  on  a  shoreless  void  ; 
How  long  they  suffer'd,  or  how  soon  they  found 
Rest  in  the  gulf  or  peace  on  living  ground : 
— Whether,  by  hunger,  cold,  and  grief  consumed, 
They  perish'd  miserably — and  unentomb'd 
(While  on  that  frigid  bier  their  ©orses  lay), 
Became  the  sea-fowl's  or  the  sea-bear's  prey ; 
— Whether  the  wasting  mound,  by  swift  degrees, 
Exhaled  in  mist,  and  vanish'd  from  the  seas. 
While  they,  too  weak  to  struggle  even  in  death. 
Lock'd  in  each  other's  arms  resign'd  their  breath. 
And  their  white  skeletons,  beneath  the  wave. 
Lie  intertwined  in  one  sepulchral  cave  : 
— Or  meeting  some  Norwegian  bark  at  sea. 
They  deemed  its  deck  a  world  of  liberty ; 


1  The  principal  phenomena  described  in  this  disruption  of 
60  immeDBC  a  breadth  of  ice,  arc  introduced  on  the  authority  of , 


an  authentic  narrative  of  a  journey  on  sledges  along  the  coast 
of  Labrador,  by  two  iMoravian  missionaries  and  a  number  of 
Esquimaux,  in  the  year  1782.  The  first  incident  in  this  Canto, 
the  destruction  of  the  snow-house,  is  partly  borrowed  from  the 
same  record. 

1  The  Ice-bergs,  both  fixed  and  floating,  present  the  most  fan- 
tastic and  magnificent  forms,  which  an  active  imagination  may 
easily  convert  into  landscape-scenery.  Crantz  says,  that  some 
of  these  look  like  churches,  with  pillars,  arches,  portals,  and 
illuminated  windows;  others  like  castles,  with  square  and  spiral 
turrets.  A  third  class  assume  the  appearance  of  ships  in  full 
sail,  to  which  pilots  have  occasionally  gone  out,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  conducting  them  into  harbor;  many  again  resemble 
large  islands,  with  hill  and  dale,  as  well  as  villages,  and  even 
cities,  built  upon  the  margin  of  the  sea.  Two  of  these  stoo"! 
for  many  years  in  Disco  Bay,  which  the  Dutch  whalers  called 
Amsterdam  and  Haarlem. 

251 


68 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— Or  sunward  sailing,  on  green  Erin's  sod, 
'JMiey  kneel'd  and  worshipp'd  a  delivering  God, 
Where  yet  the  blood  they  brought  from  Greenland 

runs 
A  mono;  tlie  noblest  of  our  sister's  sons 
—Is  all  unknown  ; — their  ice-berg  disappears 
Amidst  the  flood  of  unreturning  years. 

Ages  are  fled  ;  and  Greenland's  hour  draws  nighi 
Seald  is  the  judgment ;  all  her  race  must  die  ; 
Commerce  forsakes  th'  unvoyageable  seas, 
That  year  by  year  with  keener  rigor  freeze  ; 
Th'  embargoed  waves  in  narrower  channels  roll 
To  blue  Spitzbergen  and  the  utmost  pole  ; 
A  hundred  colonies,  erewhile  that  lay 
On  the  green  marge  of  many  a  shelter'd  bay, 
Lapse  to  the  wilderness  ;  their  tenants  throng 
Where  streams  in  summer,  turbulent  and  strong, 
With  molten  ice  from  inland  Alps  supplied. 
Hold  free  communion  with  the  breathing  tide. 
That  from  the  heart  of  ocean  sends  the  flood 
Of  living  water  round  the  world,  like  blood; 
15ut  Greenland's  pulse  shall  slow  and  slower  beat. 
Till  the  last  spark  of  genial  warmth  retreat, 
And,  bke  a  palsied  limb  of  Nature's  frame, 
Greenland  be  nothing  but  a  place  and  name. 
That  crisis  comes  ;  the  w  afted  fuel  fails ; ' 
The  cattle  perish;  famine  long  prevails; 
With  torpid  sloth,  intenser  seasons  bind 
The  strength  of  muscle  and  the  spring  of  mind; 
Man  droops,  his  spirits  waste,  his  powers  decay, 
— His  generation  soon  shall  pass  away. 

At  moonless  midnight,  on  this  naked  coast, 
ITow  beautiful  in  heaven  the  starry  host ! 
With  lambent  brilliance  o'er  these  cloister-walls, 
Slant  from  the  firmament  a  meteor  falls; 
A  steadier  flame  from  yonder  beacon  streams, 
To  light  the  vessel,  seen  in  golden  dreams 
By  many  a  pining  wretch,  whose  slumbers  feign 
The  bliss  for  which  he  looks  at  morn  in  vain. 
Two  years  are  gone,  and  half  expired  a  third 
(The  nation's  heart  is  sick  with  hope  defer r'd). 
Since  last  for  Europe  sail'd  a  Greenland  prow. 
Her  whole  marine, — so  shorn  is  Greenland  now. 
Though  once,  like  clouds  in  ether  unconfined. 
Her  naval  wings  were  spread  to  every  wind. 
The  monk,  who  sits  the  weary  hours  to  count, 
In  the  lone  block-house,  on  the  beacon  mount, 
Watching  the  east,  beholds  the  morning  star 
Eclipsed  at  rising  o'er  the  waves  afar. 
As  if,  for  so  would  fond  expectance  think, 
A  sail  had  cross'd  it  on  the  horizon's  brink. 
His  fervent  soul,  in  ecstasy  outdrawn, 
Glows  with  the  shadows  kindling  through  the  dawn. 
Till  every  bird  that  flashes  through  the  brine 
Appears  an  arm'd  and  gallant  brigantine ; 

1  Greenland  has  been  supplied  with  fuel,  from  time  imme- 
morial, brought  by  the  tide  from  the  northern  shores  of  Asia, 
and  other  regions,  probably  even  from  California,  and  the  coast 
of  America  towards  Behring's  Straits.  This  annual  provision, 
however,  has  gradually  been  decreasing  for  some  years  past 
(being  partly  intercepted  by  the  accumulation  of  ice),  on  the 
shores  ofmndern  Greenland  towards  Davis's  Straits.  Should  it 
fail  altogether,  that  country  (like  the  east)  must  become  unin- 
habitable; as  the  natives  themselves  employ  wood  in  the  con- 
struction of  their  houses,  their  boats,  and  their  implements  of 
fishmff,  hunting,  and  shooting,  and  could  not  find  any  adequate 
iubslitute  for  it  at  home 


And  every  sound  along  the  air  that  comes. 
The  voice  of  clarions  and  the  roll  of  drums. 
— 'T  is  she  !  't  is  she  !  the  well-known  keel  at  last. 
With  Greenland's  banner  streaming  at  the  mast; 
The  full-swoln  sails,  the  spring-tide,  and  the  breeze 
Waft  on  her  way  the  pilgrim  of  the  seas. 
The  monks  at  matins  issuing  from  their  cells, 
Spread  the  glad  tidings;  while  their  convent-bells 
Wake  town  and  country,  sea  and  shore,  to  bliss 
Unknown  for  years  on  any  morn  but  this. 
Men,  women,  children  throng  the  joyous  strand, 
Whose  mob  of  moving  shadows  o'er  the  sand 
Lengthen  to  giants,  w  bile  the  hovering  sun 
Lights  up  a  thousand  radiant  points  from  one. 
The  pilots  launch  their  boats  : — a  race  !  a  race! 
The  strife  of  oars  is  seen  in  every  face ; 
Arm  against  arm  puts  forth  its  might  to  reach. 
And  guide  the  w  elcome  stranger  to  the  beach. 
— Shouts  from  the  shore,  the  clifls,  the  boats,  arise ; 
No  voice,  no  signal  from  the  ship  replies ; 
Nor  on  the  deck,  the  yards,  the  bow,  the  stern, 
Can  keenest  eye  a  human  Ibrm  discern. 
Oh !  that  those  eyes  were  open'd,  there  to  see, 
How,  in  serene  and  dreadful  majesty. 
Sits  the  destroying  Angel  at  the  helm  ! 
— He,  who  hath  lately  march'd  from  realm  to  realm, 
And  from  the  palace  to  the  peasant's  shed. 
Made  all  the  living  kindred  to  the  dead  : 
Nor  man  alone,  dumb  nature  felt  his  wrath. 
Drought,  mildew,  murrain,  strew'd  his  carnage-path; 
Harvest  and  vintage  cast  their  timeless  fruit. 
Forests  before  him  wilher'd  from  the  root. 
To  Greenland  now,  with  unexhausted  power. 
He  comes  commission'd ;  and  in  evil  hour 
Propitious  elements  prepare  his  way ; 
His  day  of  landing  is  a  festal  day. 

A  boat  arrives ; — to  those  who  scale  the  deck. 
Of  life  appears  but  one  disastrous  wreck ; 
Fall'n  from  the  rudder  w  hich  he  fain  had  grasp'd, 
But  stronger  Death  his  wrestling  hold  unclasp'd, 
The  film  of  darkness  freezing  o'er  his  eyes, 
A  lukewarm  corpse,  the  brave  commander  lies ; 
Survivor  sole  of  all  his  buried  crew. 
Whom  one  by  one  the  rife  contagion  slew. 
Just  when  the  cliffs  of  Greenland  cheer'd  his  sight, 
Even  from  their  pinnacle  his  soul  took  flight. 
Chill'd  at  the  spectacle,  the  pilots  gaze 
One  on  another,  lost  in  blank  amaze ; 
But  from  approaching  boats,  when  rivals  throng, 
They  seize  the  helm,  in  silence  steer  along. 
And  cast  their  anchor,  'midst  exulting  cries, 
That  make  the  rocks  the  echoes  of  the  skies, 
Till  the  mysterious  signs  of  woes  to  come. 
Circled  by  whispers,  strike  the  uproar  dumb. 
Rumor  affirms,  that  by  some  heinous  spell 
Of  Lapland  witches,  crew  and  captain  fell ; 
None  guess  the  secret  of  perfidious  fate, 
Which  all  shall  know  too  soon, — yet  know  too  late 


i 


The  monks,  who  claim  the  ship,  divide  the  stores 
Of  food  and  raiment,  at  their  convent-doors. 
— A  mother,  hastening  to  her  cheerless  shed, 
Breaks  to  her  little  ones  untasted  bread  ; 
Clamorous  as  nestling  birds,  the  hungry  band 
Receive  a  mortal  portion  at  her  hand. 

252 


GREENI..\ND. 


69 


On  each  would  equal  love  the  best  confer, 

Each  by  distinct  affection  dear  to  her ; 

Due  the  first  pledge  that  to  her  spouse  she  gave 

And  one  unborn  till  he  was  in  his  grave ; 

Phis  was  his  darling,  that  to  her  most  kind  ; 

A  fifth  was  once  a  twin,  the  sixth  is  blind : 

[n  each  she  hves ; — in  each  by  turns  she  dies ; 

Smitfen  by  pestilence  before  her  eyes, 

riiree  days  and  all  are  slain ; — the  heaviest  doom 

Is  hers ,  their  ice-barr'd  cottage  is  their  tomb. 

—The  wretch,  whose  limbs  are  impotent  with  cold, 

[n  the  warm  comfort  of  a  mantle  roll'd. 

Lies  down  to  slumber  on  his  soul's  desire ; 

But  wakes  at  morn,  as  wrapt  in  flames  of  fire , 

\or  Hercules,  when  from  his  breast  he  tore 

The  cloak  envenom'd  with  the  Centaur's  gore, 

Felt  sharper  pangs  than  he,  who,  mad  with  rage, 

[  )i  ves  in  the  gulf  or  rolls  in  snow,  t'  assuage 

A\<  (juenchless  agony;  the  rankhng  dart 

^\ithin  him  burns  till  it  consumes  his  heart. 

^rom  vale  to  vale  th'  affrighted  victims  fly, 

3ut  catch  or  give  the  plague  with  every  sigh ; 

V  touch  contaminates  the  purest  veins, 

fill  the  Black  Death  through  all  the  region  reigns.' 

Comes  there  no  ship  again  to  Greenland's  shore? 
There  comes  another : — there  shall  come  no  more  ; 
Vor  this  shall  reach  an  haven : — What  are  these 
<ii;  londous  monuments  upon  the  seas? 
.Vfjil-LS  of  Omnipotence,  in  wondrous  forms, 
minovable  as  mountains  in  the  storms  ? 
"ar  as  Imagination's  eye  can  roll, 
)ne  range  of  Alpine  glaciers  to  the  pole 
'lanks  the  whole  eastern  coast ;  and  branching  wide, 
Arches  o'er  many  a  league  th'  indignant  tide, 
rhat  works  and  frets,  with  unavailing  flow, 
^0  mine  a  passage  to  the  beach  below ; 
?hence  from  its  neck  that  winter-yoke  to  rend, 
'\nd  down  the  gulf  the  crashing  fragments  send. 
Inhere  lies  a  vessel  in  this  realm  of  frost, 
>'ot  wrecked,  nor  stranded,  yet  for  ever  lost ; 
ts  keel  imbedded  in  the  solid  mass ; 
Is  glistening  sails  appear  expanded  glass ; 
'he  transverse  ropes  with  pearls  enormous  strung, 
,'he  yards  with  icicles  grotesquely  hung. 
iVfapt  in  the  topmost  shrouds  there  rests  a  boy, 
[lis  old  sea-faring  father's  only  joy  ; 
j'prung  from  a  race  of  rovers,  ocean-born, 
Jursed  at  the  helm,  he  trod  diy-land  with  scorn; 
j^hrough  fourscore  years  from  port  to  port  he  veer'd. 
iiuicksand,  nor  rock,  nor  foe,  nor  tempest  fear'd; 
!«ow  cast  ashore,  though  like  a  hulk  he  lie, 
jlis  son  at  sea  is  ever  in  his  eye, 
jind  his  prophetic  thought,  from  age  to  age, 
Esteems  the  waves  his  offspring's  heritage  : 
Ife  ne'er  shall  know,  in  his  Norwegian  cot, 
[ow  brief  that  son's  career,  how  strange  his  lot ; 
(V^rithed  round  the  mast,  and  sepulchred  in  air, 
-  i[im  shall  no  worm  devour,  no  vulture  tear ; 
^'ongeal'd  to  adamant  his  frame  shall  last, 

Tiough  empires  change,  till  time  and  tide  be  past 


On  deck,  in  groups  embracing  as  they  died, 
Singly,  erect,  or  slumbering  side  by  side, 
Behold  the  crew ! — They  sail'd,  with  hope  elate, 
For  eastern  Greenland  ;  till,  ensnared  by  fate. 
In  toils  that  mock'd  their  utmost  strength  and  skill. 
They  felt,  as  by  a  charm,  their  ship  sland  still ; 
The  madness  of  the  wildest  gale  that  blows, 
Were  mercy  to  that  shudder  of  repose, 
When  withering  horror  struck  from  heart  to  heart, 
The  blunt  rebound  of  Death's  benumbing  dart, 
And  each,  a  petrifaction  at  his  post, 
Looked  on  yon  father,  and  gave  up  the  ghost ; ' 
He,  meekly  kneeling,  with  his  hands  upraised. 
His  beard  of  driven  snow,  eyes  fix'd  and  glazed, 
Alone  among  the  dead  shall  yet  survive, 
— Th'  imperishable  dead  that  seem  alive  ; 
— Th'  immortal  dead,  whose  spirits,  breaking  free, 
Bore  his  last  words  into  eternity. 
While  with  a  seraph's  zeal,  a  Christian's  love. 
Till  his  tongue  fail'd,  he  spoke  of  joys  above. 
Now  motionless,  amidst  the  icy  air. 
He  breathes  from  marble  lips  unutter'd  prayer. 
The  clouds  condensed,  with  dark,  unbroken  hue 
Of  stormy  purple,  overhang  his  view. 
Save  in  the  west,  to  which  he  strains  his  sight. 
One  golden  streak,  that  grows  intensely  bright. 
Till  thence  th'  emerging  sun,  with  lightning  blaze. 
Pours  the  whole  quiver  of  his  arrowy  rays ; 
The  smitten  rocks  to  instant  diamond  turn. 
And  round  th'  expiring  saint  such  visions  bum. 
As  if  the  gates  of  Paradise  were  thrown 

Wide  open  to  receive  his  soul ; 't  is  flown ! 

The  glory  vanishes,  and  over  all 
Cimmerian  darkness  spreads  her  funeral  pall. 

Morn  shall  return,  and  noon,  and  eve,  and  night 
Meet  here  with  interchanging  shade  and  light ; 
But  from  this  bark  no  timber  shall  decay. 
Of  these  cold  forms  no  feature  pass  away ; 
Perennial  ice  aroimd  th'  incrusted  bow 
The  peopled  deck,  and  full-rigg'd  masts  shall  grow, 
Till  from  the  sun  himself  the  whole  be  hid. 
Or  spied  beneath  a  crystal  pyramid  ; 
As  in  pure  amber,  with  divergent  lines, 
A  rugged  shell  emboss'd  with  sea-weed  shines. 
From  age  to  age  increased  with  annual  snow, 
This  new  Mont  Blanc  among  the  clouds  may  glow. 
Whose  conic  peak,  that  earliest  greets  the  dawn. 
And  latest  from  the  sun's  shut  eye  withdrawn. 
Shall  from  the  zenith,  through  incumbent  gloom. 
Burn  like  a  lamp  upon  this  naval  tomb. 
But  when  th'  archangel's  trumpet  sounds  on  high. 
The  pile  shall  burst  to  atoms  through  the  sky. 
And  leave  its  dead,  upstarting,  at  the  call, 
Naked  and  pale,  before  the  Judge  of  all. 

Once  more  to  Greenland's  long-forsaken  beach, 
Wliich  foot  of  man  again  shall  never  reach, 


1  The  depopulation  of  old  Greenland  is  supposed  to  have  been 
•eatly  accelerated  by  the  introduction  of  the  plague,  which, 
ider  the  name  of  the  Black  Death,  made  dreadful  havoc 
iroughout  Europe  towards  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

w 


1  The  Danish  Chrovide  says,  that  the  Greenland  colonists 
were  tributary  to  the  kings  of  Norway  from  the  year  1023 ;  soon 
after  which  they  embraced  Christianity.  In  its  more  flourishing 
period  this  province  is  stated  to  have  been  divided  into  a  hun- 
dred parishes,  under  the  superintendence  of  a  bishop.  From 
1120  to  1408,  the  succession  of  seventeen  bishops  is  recordeH. 
In  the  last-mentioned  year,  Jlndrew,  ordained  bishop  of  Green- 
land by  Jiskill,  archbishop  of  Drontheim,  sailed  for  his  diocese, 
but  whether  he  arrived  there,  or  was  cast  away,  was  neve» 
known.   To  his  imagined  fate  this  episode  alludes. 

253 


JO 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Imagination  wings  her  flight,  explores 

The  march  of  Pestilence  along  the  shores, 

And  sees  how  F'amine  in  his  steps  hath  paced, 

While  Winter  laid  the  soil  for  ever  waste. 

DweUings  are  heaps  of  fall'n  or  falling  stones, 

The  charnel-houses  of  unburied  bones. 

On  which  obscene  and  prowling  monsters  fed, 

But  with  the  ravin  in  their  jaws  fell  dead. 

Thus  while  Destruction,  blasting  youth  and  age. 

Raged  till  it  wanted  victims  for  its  rage  ; 

Love,  the  last  feeling  that  from  life  retires, 

Blew  the  faint  sparks  of  his  unfuell'd  fires. 

In  the  cold  sunshine  of  yon  narrow  dell 

Affection  lingers ; — Oiere  two  lovers  dwell, 

Greenland's  whole  family ;  nor  long  forlorn, 

There  comes  a  visitant ;  a  babe  is  born. 

O'er  his  meek  helplessness  the  parents  smiled  ; 

'T  was  Hope — for  Hope  is  every  mother's  child ; 

Then  seem'd  they,  in  that  world  of  solitude, 

Thf'  Eve  and  Adam  of  a  race  renew'd. 

Brief  happiness!  too  perilous  to  last; 

The  moon  hath  wax'd  and  waned,  and  all  is  past: 

Behold  the  end : — one  morn,  athwart  the  wall, 

They  mark'd  the  shadow  of  a  reindeer  fall. 

Bounding  in  tameless  freedom  o'er  the  snow : 

The  father  track'd  him,  and  with  fatal  bow 

Smote  down  the  victim ;  but  before  his  eyes, 

A  rabid  she-bear  pounced  upon  the  prize  ; 

A  shaft  into  the  spoiler's  flank  he  sent. 

She  turn'd  in  wrath,  and  limb  from  limb  had  rent 

The  hunter ;  but  his  dagger's  plunging  steel, 

With  riven  bosom,  made  the  monster  reel ; 

Unvanquish'd,  both  to  closer  combat  flew, 

Assailants  each,  till  each  the  other  slew ; 

Mingling  their  blood  from  mutual  wounds,  they  lay 

Slretch'd  on  the  carcass  of  their  antler'd  prey. 


Meanwhile  his  partner  waits,  her  heart  at  rest 
No  burthen  bat  her  infant  on  her  breast  : 
Willi  him  she  slumljers,  or  with  him  she  plays. 
And  tells  him  all  her  dreams  of  future  days. 
Asks  him  a  thousand  questions,  feigns  replies. 
And  reads  whate'er  she  wishes  in  his  eyes. 
— Red  evening  comes;  no  husband's  shadow  falls 
Where  fell  the  reindeer's  o'er  the  latticed  walls : 
'Tis  night;  no  footstep  sounds  towards  her  door; 
The  day  returns, — but  he  returns  no  more. 
In  frenzy  forth  she  sallies ;  and  with  cries. 
To  which  no  voice  except  her  own  replies 
In  frightful  echoes,  starting  all  around, 
Where  human  voice  again  shall  never  sound. 
She  seeks  him,  finds  him  not;  some  angel-guide 
In  mercy  turns  her  from  the  corpse  aside ; 
Perhaps  his  own  freed  spirit,  lingering  near, 
Who  waits  to  waft  her  to  a  happier  sjihere. 
But  leads  her  first,  at  evening,  to  their  cot. 
Where  lies  the  little  one,  all  day  forgot; 
Imparadised  in  sleep  she  finds  him  there. 
Kisses  his  cheek,  and  breathes  a  mother's  prayer. 
Three  days  she  languishes,  nor  can  she  shed 
One  tear,  between  the  living  and  the  dead ; 
When  her  lost  spouse  comes  o'er  the  widow's  thougV* 
The  pangs  of  memory  are  to  madness  wrought : 
But  when  her  suckling's  eager  lips  are  felt, 
Her  heart  would  fain — but  oh  !  it  cannot — melt; 
At  length  it  breaks,  while  on  her  lap  he  lies. 
With  baby  wonder  gazing  in  her  eyes. 
Poor  orphan !  mine  is  not  a  hand  to  trace 
Thy  little  story,  last  of  all  thy  race  ! 
Not  long  thy  sutferings ;  cold  and  colder  grown,     ;  j 
The  arms  that  clasp  thee  chill  thy  limbs  to  stone.      I 
— 'T  is  done  : — from  Greenland's  coast,  the  latest  sigh 
Bore  infant  innocence  beyond  the  sky. 


Soufli^  of  %ion. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  following  Imitations  of  portions  of  the  true 
"  Songs  of  Zion"  the  author  pretends  not  to  have 
succeeded  better  than  any  that  have  gone  before  him; 
but,  having  followed  in  the  track  of  none,  he  would 
venture  to  hope,  that,  by  avoiding  the  rugged  literal- 
ity  of  some,  and  the  diffusive  paraphrases  of  others, 
he  may,  in  a  few  instances,  have  approached  nearer 
than  either  of  them  have  generally  done,  to  the  ideal 
model  of  what  devotional  poems,  in  a  modern  tongue, 
grounded  upon  the  subjects  of  ancient  psalms,  yet 
suited  for  Christian  edification,  ought  to  be.  Beyond 
this  he  dare  not  say  more  than  that,  whatever  symp- 
toms of  feebleness  or  bad  taste  may  be  betrayed  in 
the  execution  of  these  pieces,  he  offers  not  to  the 
public  the  premature  fruits  of  idleness  or  haste.  So 
far  as  he  recollects,  he  has  endeavored  to  do  his  best, 
and,  in  doing  so,  he  has  never  hesitated  to  sacrifice 
ambitious  ornament  to  simplicity,  clearness,  and  force 
of  thought  and  expression.     If  in  the  event,  it  shall 


be  found  that  he  has  added  a  little  to  the  small  na ' 
tional  slock  of"  psalms  and  hymns,  and  spiritual  songs,' 
in  which  piety  speaks  the  language  of  f>oetrv,  and 
poetry  the  language  of  inspiration,  he  trusts  that  h( 
will  be  humbly  contented,  and  unfeignedly  thankfiil 
Sheffield,  May  21,  1822. 


PSALM  I. 

Thrice  happy  he,  who  shuns  the  way 
That  leads  ungodly  men  astray ; 
Vv'ho  fears  to  stand  where  sinners  meet, 
jVor  with  the  scorner  takes  his  seat. 

The  law  of  God  is  his  delight ; 
That  cloud  by  day,  that  fire  by  night. 
Shall  be  his  comfort  in  distress. 
And  guide  him  through  the  wilderness 

His  works  shall  prosper ; — he  shall  be 
A  fruitful,  fair,  unwithering  tree. 
That,  planted  where  the  river  flows, 
Nor  drought,  nor  frost,  nor  mildew  knows. 

254 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


71 


Not  so  the  wicked ; — they  are  cast 
Like  chaff  upon  the  eddying  blast : 
In  judgment  they  siiall  quake  for  dread, 
Nor  with  the  righteous  hft  their  head. 

For  God  hath  spied  their  secret  path, 
And  they  shall  perish  in  his  wrath ; 
He  too  hath  mark'd  his  people's  road, 
And  brings  them  to  his  own  abode. 


PSALM  m. 

The  Tempter  to  ray  soul  hath  said, 
"  There  is  no  help  in  God  for  thee  : " 

Lord,  lift  thou  up  thy  servant's  head. 
My  glory,  shield,  and  solace  be. 

Thus  to  the  Lord  I  raised  my  cry : 
He  heard  me  from  his  holy  hill ; 

At  his  command  the  waves  roU'd  by — 
He  beckon'd,  and  the  winds  were  still. 

I  laid  me  down  and  slept : — I  woke — 
Thou,  Lord,  my  spirit  didst  sustain  ; 

Briijht  from  the  east  the  morning  broke, 
Thy  comforts  rose  on  me  again. 

I  will  not  fear,  though  anned  throngs 
Compass  my  steps,  in  all  their  wrath  ; 

Salvation  to  the  Lord  belongs. 

His  presence  guards  his  people's  path. 


PSALM  IV. 
No.  1. 
How  long,  ye  sons  of  men,  will  ye 
The  servant  of  the  Lord  despise. 
Delight  yourselves  with  vanity. 
And  trust  in  refuges  of  lies  ? 

Know  that  the  Lord  hath  set  apart 

The  godly  man  in  every  age : 
He  loves  a  meek  and  lowly  heart — 

His  people  are  his  heritage. 

Then  stand  in  awe,  nor  dare  to  sin  : 

Commune  with  your  own  heart ;  be  still ; 

The  Lord  requireth  truth  within. 
The  sacrifice  of  mind  and  will. 


PSALM  IV. 
No.  2. 

While  many  cry,  in  Nature's  night, 
Ah!  who  will  show  the  way  to  bhss? 

Lord,  lift  on  us  thy  saving  light — 
We  seek  no  other  guide  than  this. 

Gladness  thy  sacred  presence  brings. 
More  than  the  joj-ful  reaper  knows  ; 

Or  he  who  treads  the  grapes,  and  sings. 
While  with  new*  wine  his  vat  o'erflows. 

In  peace  I  lay  me  doAATi  to  sleep ; 

Thine  arm,  O  Lord,  shall  stay  my  head : 
ITiine  angel  spread  his  tent,  and  keep 

His  midnight  watch  around  my  bed. 


PSALM  VIII. 

O  Lord,  our  King,  how  excellent. 
Thy  name  on  earth  is  known  I 

Thy  glory  in  the  firmament 
How  wonderfully  shown  I 

Yet  are  the  humble  dear  to  Thee ; 

Thy  praises  are  confest 
By  infants  lisping  on  the  knee. 

And  sucklings  at  the  breast. 

When  I  behold  the  heavens  on  high, 

The  work  of  thy  right  hand  ; 
The  moon  and  stars  amid  the  sky, 

Thy  lights  in  every  land : — 

Lord,  what  is  man,  that  thou  shouldst  deign 

On  him  to  set  thy  love. 
Give  him  on  earth  awhile  to  reign. 

Then  fill  a  throne  above  ? 

O  Lord,  how  excellent  thy  name ! 

How  manifold  thy  ways  ! 
Let  Time  thy  saving  truth  proclaim, 

Eternity  thy  praise. 


PSALM  XI. 

The  Lord  is  in  his  holy  place 

And  from  his  throne  on  high 
He  looks  upon  the  human  race 

With  omnipresent  eye. 

He  proves  the  righteous,  marks  their  path  ; 

In  Him  the  weak  are  strong  ; 
But  violence  provokes  his  wrath. 

The  Lord  abhorreth  wrong. 

God  on  the  wicked  will  rain  down 
Brimstone,  and  fire,  and  snares  ; 

The  gloom  and  tempest  of  his  frown 
— This  portion  shall  be  theirs. 

The  righteous  Lord  will  take  delight 

Alone  in  righteousness  ; 
The  just  are  pleasing  in  his  sight, 

The  humble  He  will  bless. 


PSALM  XIX. 
No.  1. 

Thy  glory.  Lord,  the  heavens  declare, 
The  firmament  displays  thy  skill  ; 

The  changing  clouds,  the  viewless  air. 
Tempest  and  calm,  thy  word  fulfil ; 

Day  unto  day  doth  utter  speech, 

And  night  to  night  thy  knowledge  teach 

Though  voice  nor  sound  inform  the  ear. 
Well-known  the  language  of  their  song. 

When  one  by  one  the  stars  appear, 
Led  by  the  silent  moon  along, 

Till  round  the  earth,  from  all  the  sky. 

Thy  beauty  beams  on  every  eye. 

255 


72 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Waked  by  thy  touch,  the  morning  sun 
Comes  hke  a  bridegroom  from  his  bower, 

And,  like  a  giant,  glad  to  run 

His  bright  career  with  speed  and  power; 

— Thy  flaming  messenger,  to  dart 

Life  through  the  depth  of  Nature's  heart. 

While  these  transporting  visions  shine 
Along  the  path  of  Providence, 

Glory  eternal,  joy  divine. 

Thy  word  reveals,  transcending  sense ; 

— My  soul  thy  goodness  longs  to  see, 

Thy  love  to  man,  thy  love  to  me. 


PSALxM  XIX. 

No.  2. 

Thy  law  is  perfect.  Lord  of  light, 

Thy  testimonies  sure, 
The  statutes  of  thy  realm  are  right, 

And  thy  commandments  pure. 

Holy,  inviolate  thy  fear, 

Enduring  as  thy  throne  ; 
Thy  judgments,  chastening  or  severe, 

Justice  and  truth  alone. 

More  prized  than  gold, — than  gold  whose  waste 

Refining  fu-e  expels  ; 
Sweeter  than  honey  to  my  taste, 

Than  honey  from  the  cells. 

Let  these,  O  God,  my  soul  convert, 

And  make  thy  servant  wise  ; 
Let  these  be  gladness  to  my  heart, 

The  day-spring  to  mine  eyes. 

By  these  may  I  be  warn'd  betimes ; 

Who  knows  the  guile  within  ? 
Lord,  save  me  from  presumptuous  crimes. 

Cleanse  me  from  secret  sin. 

So  may  the  words  my  lips  express, 
The  thoughts  that  throng  my  mind, 

0  Lord,  my  strength  and  righteousness ! 
With  thee  acceptance  find. 


Let  goodness  and  mercy,  my  bountiful  God, 
Still  follow  my  steps  till  I  meet  thee  above ; 

I  seek, — by  the  path  which  my  forefiithers  trod 
Through  the  land  of  their  sojourn, — thy  kingdc 
of  love. 


PSALM  XXIV. 

No.  L 

The  earth  is  thine,  Jehovah, — thine 
Its  peopled  realms  and  wealthy  stores ; 

Built  on  the  flood,  by  power  divine. 
The  waves  are  ramparts  to  the  shores. 

But  who  shall  reach  thine  holy  place. 
Or  who,  O  Lord,  ascend  thine  hill  ? 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  see  thy  face. 
The  perfect  man  that  doth  thy  will. 

He  who  to  bribes  hath  closed  his  hand, 
To  idols  never  bent  the  knee, 

Nor  sworn  in  falsehood, — he  shall  stand 
Redeem'd,  and  own'd,  and  kept  by  Thee 


PSALM  XXIII. 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd,  no  want  shall  I  know ; 

I  feed  in  green  pastures,  safe-folded  I  rest  : 
He  leadeth  my  soul  where  the  still  waters  flow. 

Restores  me  when  wandering,  redeems  when  op- 
prest. 

Through  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death  though  I  stray, 
Since  thou  art  my  guardian,  no  evil  I  fear ; 

Thy  rod  shall  defend  me,  thy  staff  be  my  stay, 
No  harm  can  befall,  with  my  Comforter  near. 

In  the  midst  of  aflSiction  my  table  is  spread ; 

With  blessings  unmeasured  my  cup  runneth  o'er. 
With  perfume  and  oil  thou  anointest  my  head ; 

O  what  shall  I  ask  of  thy  providence  more  ? 


PSALM  XXIV. 

No.  2. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates,  and  wide 
Your  everlasting  doors  display  ; 

Ye  angel-guards,  like  flames  divide. 
And  give  the  King  of  Glory  way 

Who  is  the  King  of  Glory? — He 
The  Lord  Omnipotent  to  save. 

Whose  own  right-arm  in  victory 

Led  captive  Death,  and  sjxjil'd  the  grave 

Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates,  and  high 
Your  everlasting  portals  heave  ; 

Welcome  the  King  of  Glory  nigh — 

Him  let  the  heaven  of  heavens  receive. 

Who  is  the  King  of  Glory? — who? 

The  Lord  of  Hosts — behold  his  name : 
The  kingdom,  power  and  honor  due 

Yield  him,  ye  saints,  with  glad  acclaim. 


PSALM  xxvn. 

No.  1. 

God  is  my  strong  salvation, 

What  foe  have  I  to  fear? 
In  darkness  and  temptation 

My  light,  my  help,  is  near : 
Though  hosts  encamp  around  me. 

Firm  to  the  fight  I  stand ; 
What  terror  can  confound  me. 

With  God  at  my  right  hand  ? 

Place  on  the  Lord  reliance, 
My  soul,  with  courage  wait , 

His  truth  be  thine  affiance. 
When  faint  and  desolate  : 


1 


256 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


73 


His  might  thine  heart  shall  strengthen, 

His  love  thy  joy  increase  ; 
Mercy  thy  days  shall  lengthen — 

The  Lord  will  give  thee  peace. 


PSALM  XX\1L 
No.  2. 

One  thing,  with  all  my  soul's  desire, 
I  sought  and  will  pursue  ; 

What  thine  own  Spirit  doth  inspire, 
Lord,  for  thy  servant  do. 

Grant  me  within  thy  courts  a  place, 
Among  thy  saints  a  seat, 

For  ever  to  behold  thy  face. 
And  worship  at  thy  feet : — 

In  thy  pavilion  to  abide 

When  storms  of  trouble  blow, 
And  in  thy  tabernacle  hide. 

Secure  from  every  foe. 


"  Seek  ye  my  face;" — without 
When  thus  I  hear  Thee  speak. 

My  heart  would  leap  for  joy,  and  say, 
"  Thy  face,  Lord,  will  I  seek." 

Then  leave  me  not  when  griefs  assail. 
And  earthly  comforts  flee  ; 

When  father,  mother,  kindred  fail. 
My  God,  remember  me. 

Oft  had  I  fainted,  and  resign'd 

Of  every  hope  my  hold, 
But  mine  afflictions  brought  to  mind 

Thy  benefits  of  old. 

Wait  on  the  Lord,  with  courage  wait; 

My  soul,  disdain  to  fear; 
The  righteous  Judge  is  at  the  gate. 

And  thy  redemption  near. 


PSALM  XXIX.      • 

5ivE  glory  to  God  in  the  highest :  give  praise. 
Ye  noble,  ye  mighty,  with  joyful  accord  ; 

\ll-wise  are  his  counsels,  all-perfect  his  ways: 
In  the  beauty  of  holiness  worship  the  Lord. 

The  voice  of  the  Lord  on  the  ocean  is  known, 

The  God  of  eternity  ihundereth  abroad ; 
The  voice  of  the  Lord,  from  the  depth  of  his  throne, 
j    Is  terror  and  power : — all  nature  is  awed. 

At  the  voice  of  the  Lord  the  cedars  are  bow'd, 
And  towers  from  their  base  into  ruin  are  hurl'd  ,• 

The  voice  of  the  Lord,  from  the  dark-bosom'd  cloud, 
Dissevers  the  lightning  in  flames  o'er  the  world. 

5ee  Lebanon  bonnd,  like  the  kid  on  his  rocks. 
And  wild  as  the  unicorn  Sirion  appear ; 

The  wilderness  quakes  with  the  resonant  shocks; 
The  hinds  cast  their  young  in  the  travail  of  fear. 
33  W2 


The  voice  of  the  Lord  through  the  calm  of  the  wood 
Awakens  its  echoes,  strikes  light  through  its  caves, 

The  Lord  sitteth  King  on  the  turbulent  flood  ; 

The  winds  are  his  servants,  his  servants  the  waves. 

The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  his  people ;  the  Lord 
Gives  health  to  his  people,  and  peace  evermore ; 

Then  throng  to  his  temple,  his  glory  record. 
But,  Oh !  when  he  speaketh,  in  silence  adore 


PSALM  XXX. 

Yea,  I  will  extol  Thee, 

Lord  of  life  and  light, 
For  thine  arm  upheld  me, 

Turn'd  my  foes  to  flight : 
I  implored  thy  succor, 

Thou  wert  swift  to  save ; 
Heal  my  wounded  spirit, 

Bring  me  from  the  grave. 

Sing,  ye  saints,  sing  praises. 

Call  his  love  to  mind. 
For  a  moment  angry. 

But  for  ever  kind  ; 
Grief  may,  like  a  pilgrim, 

Through  the  night  sojourn. 
Yet  shall  joy  to-morrow 

With  the  sun  return. 

In  my  wealth  I  vaunted, 

"  Nought  shall  move  me  hence  ; ' 
Thou  hadst  made  my  mountain 

Strong  in  my  defence : 
— Then  thy  face  was  hidden, 

Trouble  laid  me  low, 
"  Lord,"  I  cried  most  humbly, 

"  Why  forsake  me  so  ? 

"  Would  my  blood  appease  Thee, 

In  atonement  shed  ? 
Can  the  dust  give  glory, — 

Praise  employ  the  dead  ? 
Hear  me.  Lord,  in  mercy  ! 

God,  my  helper,  hear:" 
— Long  Thou  didst  not  tarr}', 

Help  and  health  were  near. 

Thou  hast  turn'd  my  mourning 

Into  minstrelsy. 
Girded  me  with  gladness. 

Set  from  thraldom  free: 
Thee  my  ransom'd  powers 

Henceforth  shall  adore, — 
Thee,  my  great  Deliverer, 

Bless  for  evermore. 


PSALM  XXXIX. 

Lord,  let  me  know  mine  end. 
My  days,  how  brief  their  date, 

That  I  may  timely  comprehend 
How  frail  ray  best  estate. 


257 


74 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  life  is  but  a  span, 

Why  art  thou  cast  down,  my  soul  ? 

Mine  age  is  nough'  with  Thee ; 

God,  thy  God,  shall  make  thee  whole : 

Man,  in  his  highest  honor,  man 

Why  art  thou  disquieted  ? 

Is  dust  and  vanity. 

God  shall  lift  thy  fallen  head ; 

And  his  countenance  benign 

A  shadow  even  in  health, 

Be  the  saving  health  of  thine. 

Disquieted  with  pride ; 

Or,  rack'd  with  care,  he  heaps  up  wealth, 

Which  unknown  heirs  divide. 

PSALM  XLH. 

What  seek  I  now,  0  Lord  ? 

No.  2. 

My  hope  is  in  thy  name ; 

Blot  out  my  sins  from  thy  record, 

Hearken,  Lord,  to  my  complaints. 

Nor  give  me  up  to  shame. 

For  my  soul  within  me  faints; 

Thee,  far  off,  I  call  to  mind. 

Dumb  at  thy  feet  I  lie, 

In  the  land  I  left  behind, 

For  thou  hast  brought  me  low : 

W^here  the  streams  of  Jordan  flow 

Remove  thy  judgments,  lest  I  die  ; 

Where  the  heights  of  Hermon  glow 

I  faint  beneath  tliy  blow. 

Tempest-tost,  my  failing  bark 

At  thy  rebuke,  the  bloom 

Founders  on  the  ocean  dark  ; 

Of  man's  vain  beauty  flies, 

Deep  to  deep  around  me  calls, 

And  grief  shall,  like  a  moth,  consume 

With  the  rush  of  water-falls ; 

All  that  delights  our  eyes. 

While  I  plunge  to  lower  caves, 

Overwhelm'd  by  all  thy  waves. 

Have  pity  on  my  fears, 

Hearken  to  my  request. 

Once  the  morning's  earliest  light 

Turn  not  in  silence  from  my  tears, 

Brought  thy  mercy  to  my  sight. 

Bui  give  the  mourner  rest. 

And  my  wakeful  song  was  heard 

Later  than  the  evening  bird ; 

A  stranger,  Lord,  with  Thee, 

Hast  thou  all  my  prayers  forgot  ? 

1  walk  on  pilgrimage, 

Dost  Thou  scorn,  or  hear  them  not  ? 

Where  all  my  fathers,  once  like  me. 

Sojourn'd  from  age  to  age. 

Why,  my  soul,  art  thou  perplex'd  ? 

Why  with  faithless  trouble  vex'd  ? 

0  spare  me  yet,  I  pray ; 

Awhile  my  strength  restore, 
Ere  I  am  summon'd  hence  away. 

And  seen  on  earth  no  more. 

Hope  in  God,  whose  saving  name 
Thou  shalt  joyfully  proclaim, 

When  his  countenance  shall  shine 
Through  the  clouds  that  darken  thine. 

•                           «= 

PSALM  LXni. 

PSALM  XLH. 
No.  1. 

(Continuation  of  Psalm  XLII.J 
No.  3. 
Judge  me.  Lord,  in  righteousness ; 

As  the  hart,  with  eager  looks. 

Panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 

Plead  for  me  in  my  distress  ; 

So  my  soul,  at  hirst  for  Thee, 

Good  and  merciful  Thou  art. 

I'ants  the  living  God  to  see  : 

Bind  this  bleeding  broken  heart; 

When,  0  when,  with  filial  fear. 

Cast  me  not  despairing  hence, 
Be  thy  love  my  confidence. 

Lord,  shall  I  to  Thee  draw  near  ? 

Tears  my  food  by  night,  by  day 

Send  thy  hght  and  truth  to  guide 

Grief  consumes  my  strength  away: 

Me,  too  prone  to  turn  aside. 

While  his  craft  the  Tempter  plies. 

On  thy  holy  hill  to  rest, 

"  Where  is  now  thy  God  ? "  he  cries  ; 

In  thy  tabernacles  blest ; 

This  would  sink  me  to  despair, 

There,  to  God,  my  chiefest  joy. 

But  I  pour  my  soul  in  prayer. 

Praise  shall  all  my  powers  employ. 

For  in  '„appier  times,  I  went 

Wliy,  my  soul,  art  thou  dismay'd  ? 

■'Vhere  the  multitude  frequent  : 

Why  of  earth  or  hell  afraid  ? 

^,  with  them,  was  wont  to  bring 

Trust  in  God  ; — disdain  to  yield. 

Homage  to  thy  courts,  my  King; 

While  o'er  thee  He  casts  his  shield, 

I,  with  them,  was  wpnt  to  raise 

And  his  countenance  divine 

Festal  hymns  on  holy  days. 

Sheds  the  light  of  Heaven  on  thine. 

258 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


75 


PSALM  XLVI. 
No.  1. 

God  is  our  refuge  and  defence, 

In  trouble  our  unfailing  aid  ; 
Secure  in  his  omnipotence, 

What  foe  can  make  our  soul  afraid  ? 

Yea,  though  the  earth's  foundations  rock, 
And  mountains  down  the  gulf  be  hurl'd, 

His  people  smile  amid  the  shock, 

They  look  beyond  this  transient  world. 

Tliere  is  a  river  pure  and  bright. 

Whose  streams  make  glad  the  heavenly  plains ; 
Where,  in  eternity  of  light, 

The  city  of  our  God  remains. 

Built  by  the  word  of  his  command, 
With  his  unclouded  presence  blest. 

Firm  as  his  throne  the  bulwarks  stand  ; 
There  is  our  home,  our  hope,  our  rest. 

Thither  let  fervent  faith  aspire. 

Our  treasure  and  our  heart  be  there  ; 

0  for  a  seraph's  wing  of  fire ! 

Xo, — on  the  mightier  wings  of  prayer, — 

We  reach  at  once  that  last  retreat. 

And,  ranged  among  the  ransom'd  throng. 

Fall  with  the  Elders  at  his  feet. 

Whose  name  alone  inspires  their  song. 

Ah,  soon,  how  soon !  our  spirits  droop ; 

Unvvont  the  air  of  Heaven  to  breathe  : 
Yet  God  in  very  deed  will  stoop. 

And  dwell  Himself  with  men  beneath. 

Come  to  thy  living  temples,  then. 

As  in  the  ancient  times  appear ; 
Let  earth  be  paradise  again, 

And  man,  O  God,  thine  image  here. 


PSALM  XLVI. 

No.  2. 

CorE  and  behold  the  works  of  God, 

What  desolations  He  will  make  ; 
In  vengeance  when  He  wields  his  rod, 
The  heathen  rage,  their  kingdoms  quake  : 
He  utters  forth  his  voice  ; — 't  is  felt ; 
Like  wax  the  world's  foundations  melt : 
The  Lord  of  hosts  is  in  the  field, 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  shield. 

Again  He  maketh  wars  to  cease. 

He  breaks  the  bow,  unpoints  the  spear, 
And  bums  the  chariot ; — joy  and  peace 
In  all  his  glorious  march  appear : 
Silence,  O  Earth  !  thy  Maker  owti  ; 
Ye  Gentiles,  He  is  God  alone  ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  in  the  field, 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  shield. 


PSALM  XLVII. 

Extol  the  Lord,  the  Lord  most  high, 

King  over  all  the  earth  ; 
Exalt  his  triumphs  to  the  sky 

In  songs  of  sacred  mirth. 

Wiere'er  the  sea-ward  rivers  run, 

His  banner  shall  advance. 
And  every  realm  beneath  the  sun 

Be  his  inheritance. 

God  is  gone  up  w^ith  loud  acclaim. 
And  trumpets'  tuneful  voice  : 

Sing  praise,  sing  praises  to  his  name  ; 
Sing  praises,  and  rejoice. 

Sing  praises  to  our  God  ;  sing  praise 

To  every  creature's  King  ; 
His  wondrous  works,  his  glorious  ways, 

All  tongues,  all  kindred  sing. 

God  sits  upon  his  holy  throne, 
God  o'er  the  heathen  reigns  ; 

His  truth  through  all  the  world  is  knowTi, 
That  truth  his  throne  sustains. 

Princes  around  his  footstool  throng. 

Kings  in  the  dust  adore  ; 
Earth  and  her  shields  to  God  belong ; 

Sing  praises  evermore. 


PSALM  XLVm. 

Jehovah  is  great,  and  great  be  his  praise  ; 

In  the  city  of  God  He  is  King  ; 
Proclaim  ye  his  triumphs  in  jubilant  lays 

On  the  mount  of  his  holiness  sing. 

The  joy  of  the  earth,  from  her  beautiful  height,    / 

Is  Zion's  impregnable  hill ; 
The  Lord  in  her  temple  still  taketh  delight, 

God  reigns  in  her  palaces  still. 

At  the  sight  of  her  splendor,  the  kings  of  the  earth 
Grew  pale  with  amazement  and  dread  ; 

Fear  seized  them  like  pangs  of  a  premature  birth ; 
They  came,  they  beheld  her,  and  fled. 

Thou  breakest  the  ships  from  the  sea-circled  climes 
W'hen  the  storm  of  thy  jealousy  lowers  ; 

As  our  fathers  have  told  of  thy  deeds,  in  their  times, 
So,  Lord,  have  we  witness'd  in  ours. 

In  the  midst  of  thy  temple,  O  God,  hath  our  mind 

Remember'd  tjiy  mercy  of  old  ; 
Let  thy  name,  like  thy  praise,  to  no  realm  be  contined 

Thy  powder  may  all  nations  behold. 

Let  the  daughters  of  Judah  be  glad  for  thy  lo\e. 

The  mountain  of  Zion  rejoice, 
For  Thou  wilt  establish  her  seat  from  above. 

— Wilt  make  her  the  throne  of  thy  choice. 

Go,  walk  about  Zion,  and  measure  the  length, 
Her  walls  and  her  bulwarks  mark  well ; 

Contemplate  her  palaces,  glorious  in  strength. 
Her  towers  and  their  pinnacles  tell. 

259 


76 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then  say  to  your  children : — Our  stronghold  is  tried ; 

This  God  is  our  God  to  the  end ; 
His  people  for  ever  his  counsels  shall  guide, 

His  arm  sliall  for  ever  defend. 


PSALM  LT. 


Have  mercy  on  me,  O  my  God, 
In  loving-kindness  hear  my  prayer : 

Withdraw  the  terror  of  thy  rod  ; 
Lord,  in  thy  tender  mercy,  spare. 

Offences  rise  where'er  I  look; 

But  I  confess  their  guilt  to  Thee : 
Blot  my  transgressions  from  thy  book, 

Cleanse  me  from  mine  iniquity. 

Whither  from  vengeance  can  I  run  ? 

Just  are  thy  judgments.  Lord,  and  right ; 
For  all  the  evil  I  have  done, 

I  did  it  only  in  thy  sight 

Shapen  in  frailty,  born  in  sin, 
From  error  how  shall  I  depart  ? 

Lo,  thou  requires!  truth  within  ; 

Lord,  write  thy  truth  upon  my  heart. 

Me  through  the  blood  of  sprinkling  make 
Pure  from  defilement,  white  as  snow ; 

Heal  me  for  my  Redeemer's  sake ; 
Then  joy  and  gladness  I  shall  know. 

A  perfect  heart  in  me  create. 
Renew  my  soul  in  innocence  ; 

Cast  not  the  suppliant  from  thy  gate, 
J\or  take  thine  holy  spirit  hence. 

Thy  consolations,  as  of  old, 

Now  to  my  troubled  mind  restore ; 

By  thy  free  Spirit's  might  uphold 

And  guide  my  steps,  to  fall  no  more. 

Then  sinners  will  I  teach  thy  ways, 
And  rebels  to  thy  sceptre  bring ; 

— Open  my  lips,  O  God,  in  praise, 

So  shall  my  mouth  thy  goodness  sing. 

Not  streaming  blood,  nor  purging  fire. 
Thy  righteous  anger  can  appease ; 

Burnt-ofFerings  thou  dost  not  require, 
Or  gladly  I  would  render  these. 

The  broken  heart  in  sacrifice 

Alone  may  thine  acceptance  meet; 

My  heart,  O  God,  do  not  despise. 
Broken  and  contrite,  at  thy  feet. 


PSALM  LXIIL 

0  God,  Thou  art  my  God  alone, 
Early  to  Thee  my  soul  shall  cry, 

A  pilgrim  in  a  land  unknown, 

A  thirsty  land  whose  springs  are  dry. 


O  that  it  were  as  it  hath  been, 
When,  praying  in  the  holy  place. 

Thy  power  and  glory  1  have  seen. 

And  mark'd  the  footsteps  of  thy  grace. 

Yet  through  this  rough  and  thorny  maze, 
I  follow  hard  on  thee,  my  God  ; 

Thine  hand  unseen  upholds  my  ways, 
I  safely  tread  where  Thju  hast  trod. 

Thee,  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
When  I  remember  on  my  bed. 

Thy  presence  makes  the  darkness  light. 
Thy  guardian  wings  are  round  my  head 

Better  than  life  itself  thy  love, 

Dearer  than  all  beside  to  me ; 
For  whom  have  I  in  heaven  above, 

Or  what  on  earth,  compared  with  Thee  ? 

Praise  with  my  heart,  my  mind,  my  voice. 
For  all  thy  mercy  1  will  give ; 

My  soul  shall  still  in  God  rejoice. 

My  tongue  shall  bless  Thee  while  I  live 


PSALM  LXIX. 

God,  be  merciful  to  me. 
For  my  spirit  trusts  in  Thee, 
And  to  Thee  her  refuge  springs ; 
Be  the  shadow  of  thy  wings 
Round  the  trembling  sinner  cast. 
Till  the  storm  is  overpast. 

From  the  water-floods  that  roll 
Deep  and  deeper  round  my  soul, 
Me,  thine  arm  almighty  take. 
For  thy  loving  kindness'  sake; 
If  thy  truth  from  me  depart. 
Thy  rebuke  would  break  my  heart 

Foes  increase,  they  close  me  round, 
Friend  nor  comforter  is  found ; 
Sore  temptations  now  assail, 
Hope,  and  strength,  and  courage  fail; 
Turn  not  from  thy  servant's  grief. 
Hasten,  Lord,  to  my  relief. 

Poor  and  sorrov^-fijl  am  I ; 
Set  me,  O  my  God  !  on  high  : 
Wonders  Thou  for  me  hast  wrought , 
Nigh  to  death  my  soul  is  brought ; 
Save  me.  Lord,  in  mercy  save, 
Lest  I  sink  below  the  grave. 


PSALM  LXX. 

Hastex,  Lord,  to  my  release. 
Haste  to  help  me,  O  my  God ! 

Foes,  like  armed  bands,  increase  ; 
Turn  them  back  the  way  they  trod 

Dark  temptations  round  me  press, 
Evil  thoughts  my  soul  assail ; 

Doubts  and  fears,  in  my  distress, 
Rise,  till  flesh  and  spirit  fail. 

260 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


77 


Those  that  seek  Thee  shall  rejoice . 

I  am  bovv'd  with  misery ; 
Yet  I  make  thy  law  my  choice — 

Turn,  ray  God,  and  look  on  me. 

Thou  mine  only  Helper  art, 
My  Redeemer  from  the  grave ; 

Strength  of  my  desiring  heart, 
Do  not  tarry,  haste  to  save. 


PSALM  LXXI. 

Lord,  I  have  put  my  trust  in  Thee, 
Turn  not  my  confidence  to  shame ; 

Thy  promise  is  a  rock  to  me, 
A  tower  of  refuge  is  thy  name. 

Thou  hast  upheld  me  from  the  womb ; 

Thou  wert  my  strength  and  hope  in  youth; 
]Xow,  trembling,  bending  o'er  the  tomb, 

I  lean  upon  thine  arm  of  truth. 

Though  I  have  long  outlived  my  peers. 
And  stand  amid  the  world  alone 

(A  stranger,  left  by  former  years), 
I  know  my  God, — by  Him  am  known. 

Cast  me  not  off  in  mine  old  age, 
Forsake  me  not  in  my  last  hour ; 

The  foe  hath  not  forgone  his  rage. 
The  lion  ravens  to  devour. 

Xot  far,  my  God,  not  far  remove  : 

Sin  and  the  world  still  spread  their  snares ; 
Stand  by  me  now,  or  they  will  prove 

Too  crafty  yet  for  my  grey  hairs. 

Me,  through  what  troubles  hast  Thou  brought ! 

Me,  with  what  consolations  crown'd ! 
Now  be  thy  last  deliverance  wrought  ; 

My  soul  in  peace  with  Thee  be  found ! 


PSALM  LXXIL 

Hail  to  the  Lord's  anointed ! 

Great  David's  greater  Son  ; 
Hail,  in  the  time  appointed. 

His  reign  on  earth  begun ! 
He  comes  to  break  oppression, 

To  let  the  captive  free  ; 
To  take  away  transgression, 

And  rule  in  equity. 

He  comes,  with  succor  speedy. 

To  those  who  suffer  wrong; 
To  help  the  poor  and  needy. 

And  bid  the  weak  be  strong : 
To  give  them  songs  for  sighing. 

Their  darkness  turn  to  light, 
Whose  souls,  condemn'd  and  dying. 

Were  precious  in  his  sight. 

By  such  shall  He  be  feared 
While  sun  and  moon  endure, — 

Beloved,  obey'd,  revered : 
For  He  shall  judge  the  poor. 


Through  changing  generations. 
With  justice,  mercy,  truth, 

While  stars  maintain  their  stations. 
Or  moons  renew  their  youth. 

He  shall  come  down,  like  showers 

Upon  the  fruitful  earth. 
And  love,  joy,  hope,  like  flowers, 

Spring  in  his  path  to  birth : 
Before  Him  on  the  mountains, 

Shall  Peace  the  herald  go ; 
And  righteousness  in  fountains 

From  hill  to  valley  flow. 

Arabia's  desert-ranger. 

To  Him  shall  bow  the  knee ; 
The  Ethiopian  stranger 

His  glory  come  to  see  : 
With  offerings  of  devotion. 

Ships  from  the  isles  shall  meet, 
To  pour  the  wealth  of  ocean 

In  tribute  at  his  feet. 

Bangs  shall  fall  down  before  Him, 

And  gold  and  incense  bring ; 
All  nations  shall  adore  Him, 

His  praise  all  people  sing  : 
For  He  shall  have  dominion 

O'er  river,  sea,  and  shore, 
Far  as  the  eagle's  pinion 

Or  dove's  light  wing  can  soar 

For  Him  shall  prayer  unceasing. 

And  daily  vows,  ascend ; 
His  kingdom  still  increasing, 

A  kingdom  without  end : 
The  mountain-dews  shall  nourish 

A  seed  in  weakness  sown, 
WTiose  fruit  shall  spread  and  flourish. 

And  shake  like  Lebanon. 

O'er  every  foe  victorious. 

He  on  his  throne  shall  rest, 
From  age  to  age  more  glorious, 

All-blessing  and  all-blest  : 
The  tide  of  time  shall  never 

His  covenant  remove ; 
His  name  shall  stand  for  ever ; 

That  name  to  us  is — Love. 


PSALM  LXXin. 

Truly  the  Lord  is  good  to  those. 

The  pure  in  heart,  who  love  his  name ; 

But  as  for  me,  temptation  rose. 

And  well-nigh  cast  me  down  to  shame. 

For  I  was  envious  at  their  state. 
When  I  beheld  the  wicked  rise. 

And  flourish  in  their  pride  elate. 
No  fear  of  death  before  their  eyes. 

Not  troubled  they,  as  others  are. 

Nor  plagued,  with  all  their  vain  pretence; 
Pride  like  a  chain  of  gold  they  wear, 

And  clothe  themselves  with  violence. 
26J 


78 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Swoln  are  their  eyes  with  wine  and  lust, 
For  more  than  heart  can  wish  have  they  ; 

In  fraud  and  tyranny  they  trust 
To  make  the  multitude  their  prey. 

Their  mouth  assails  the  heavens ;  their  tongue 
Walks  arrogantly  through  the  earth  ; 

Pleasure's  full  cups  to  them  are  wrung ; 
They  reel  in  revelry  and  mirth. 

"  Who  is  the  Lord,  that  w-e  should  fear, 
Lest  He  our  dark  devices  know  ? 

Who  the  Most  High,  that  He  should  hear, 
Or  heed,  the  words  of  men  below?" 

Thus  cry  the  mockers,  flush'd  with  health. 
Exulting  while  their  joys  increase  ; 

These  are  the  ungodly — men,  whose  wealth 
Flows  like  a  river,  ne'er  to  cease. 

And  have  I  cleansed  my  heart  in  vain. 
And  wash'd  in  innocence  my  hands  ? 

All  day  afflicted,  I  complain, 

All  night  I  mourn  in  straitening  bands. 

Too  painful  this  for  me  to  view. 
Till  to  thy  temple.  Lord,  I  went, 

And  then  their  fearful  end  I  knew. 
How  suddenly  their  light  is  spent. 

Surely  in  slippery  places  set, 

Down  to  perdition  these  are  hurl'd  ; 

Snared  in  the  toils  of  their  own  net, 
A  spectacle  to  all  the  world. 

As,  from  a  dream  when  one  aw-akes, 
The  phantoms  of  the  brain  take  flight ; 

So,  when  thy  wrath  in  thunder  breaks. 
Their  image  shall  dissolve  in  night. 

Abash'd,  my  folly  then  I  saw ; 

I  seem'd  before  Thee  like  a  brute  ; 
Smit  to  the  heart,  o'erwhelm'd  with  awe, 

I  bow'd,  and  worshipp'd,  and  was  mute. 

Yet  Thou  art  ever  at  my  side : 

O,  still  uphold  me,  and  defend  ; 
Me  by  thy  counsel  Thou  shall  guide, 

And  bring  to  glory  in  the  end. 

Whom  have  I,  Lord,  in  heaven  but  Thee  ? 

On  earth  shall  none  divide  my  heart ; 
Then  fail  my  flesh,  my  spirit  flee, 

Thou  mine  eternal  portion  art. 


PSALM  LXXVIL 

In  time  of  tribulation. 

Hear,  Lord,  my  feeble  cries; 
With  humble  supplication. 

To  Thee  my  spirit  flies: 
My  heart  with  grief  is  breaking, 

Scarce  can  my  voice  complain  ; 
Mme  eyes,  with  tears  kept  waking 

Still  watch  and  weep  in  vain. 


The  days  of  old,  in  vision. 

Bring  vanish'd  bliss  to  view ; 
The  years  of  lost  fruition 

Their  joys  in  pangs  renew: 
Remember'd  songs  of  gladness. 

Through  night's  lone  silence  brought, 
Strike  notes  of  deeper  sadness, 

And  stir  desponding  thought 

Hath  God  cast  off  for  ever  ? 

Can  time  his  truth  impair  ? 
His  tender  mercy,  never 

Shall  I  presume  to  share  ? 
Hath  He  his  loving  kindness 

Shut  up  in  endless  wrath  ? 
— No ;  this  is  mine  own  blindness, 

That  carmot  see  his  path. 

I  call  to  recollection 

The  years  of  his  right  hand  ; 
And,  strong  in  his  protection, 

Again  through  faith  I  stand. 
Thy  deeds,  O  Lord,  are  wonder; 

Holy  are  all  thy  ways ; 
The  secret  place  of  thunder 

Shall  utter  forth  thy  praise. 

Thee,  with  the  tribes  assembled, 

O  God,  the  billows  saw ; 
They  saw  Thee,  and  they  trembled, 

Turn'd,  and  stood  still,  with  awe; 
The  clouds  shot  hail — they  lighten'd , 

The  earth  reel'd  to  and  fro ; 
Thy -fiery  pillar  brighten'd 

The  gulf  of  gloom  below. 

Thy  way  is  in  great  waters, 

Thy  footsteps  are  not  known  ; 
Let  Adam's  sons  and  daughters 

Confide  in  Thee  alone  ; 
Through  the  wild  sea  Thou  leddest 

Thy  chosen  flock  of  yore ; 
Still  on  the  waves  Thou  treadest, 

And  thy  redeem'd  pass  o'er. 


PSALM  LXXX. 

Of  old,  0  God,  thine  own  right  hand 
A  pleasant  vine  did  plant  and  train ; 

Above  the  hills,  o'er  all  the  land, 

It  sought  the  sun,  and  drank  the  rain. 

Its  boughs  like  goodly  cedars  spread, 
Forth  to  the  river  went  the  root ; 

Perennial  verdure  crown'd  its  head. 
It  bore,  in  every  season,  fruit. 

That  vine  is  desolate  and  torn, 
Its  scions  in  the  dust  are  laid ; 

Rank  o'er  the  ruin  springs  the  thorn. 
The  wild  boar  wallows  in  the  shade. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  thine  ear  incline, 
Change  into  songs  thy  people's  fears* 

Return,  and  \-isit  this  thy  vine. 
Revive  thy  work  amidst  the  years. 
262 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


79 


The  plenteous  and  continued  dew 
Of  thy  rich  blessing  here  descend ; 

So  shall  thy  vine  its  leaf  renew, 

Till  o'er  the  earth  its  branches  bend. 

Then  shall  it  flourish  wide  and  far, 
While  realms  beneath  its  shadow  rest; 

The  morning  and  the  evening  star 

Shall  mark  its  bounds  from  east  to  west. 

So  shall  thine  enemies  be  dumb, 

Thy  banish'd  ones  no  more  enslaved, 

The  fullness  of  the  Gentiles  come. 
And  Israel's  yoimgest  born  be  saved. 


PSALM  LXXXIV. 

How  amiable,  how  fair, 

O  Lord  of  Hosts,  to  me, 
Thy  tabernacles  are ! 

^ly  flesh  cries  out  for  Thee ; 
My  heart  and  soul,  with  heaven-ward  fire, 
To  Thee,  the  living  God,  aspire. 

The  sparrow  here  finds  place 

To  build  her  little  nest  ; 
The  swallow's  wandering  race 

Hither  return  and  rest: 
Beneath  ihy  roof  their  young  ones  cry, 
And  round  thine  altar  learn  to  fly. 

Thrice  blessed  they  who  dwell 

Within  thine  house,  my  God, 
Where  daily  praises  swell. 

And  still  the  floor  is  trod 
By  those,  who  in  thy  presence  bow, 
By  those,  whose  King  and  God  art  Thou. 

Through  Baca's  arid  vale, 

As  pilgrims  when  they  pass, 
The  well-springs  never  fail. 

Fresh  rain  renews  the  grass ; 
From  strength  to  strength  they  journey  still, 
Till  all  appear  on  Zion's  hill. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  give  ear, 

A  gracious  answer  yield ; 
0  God  of  Jacob,  hear  ; 

Behold,  O  God,  our  shield  ; 
Look  on  thine  own  Anointed  One, 
And  save  through  thy  beloved  Son, 

Lord.  I  would  rather  stand 

A  keeper  at  thy  gate, 
Than  on  the  king's  Wght  hand 

In  tents  of  worldly  state  ; 
One  day  within  thy  courts,  one  day. 
Is  worth  a  thousand  cast  away. 

God  is  a  sun  of  light. 

Glory  and  grace  to  shed  ; 
God  is  a  shield  of  might. 

To  guard  the  faithful  head  ; 
O  Lord  of  Hosts,  how  happy  he. 
The  man  who  puts  his  trust  in  Thee ! 


PSALM  XC. 

Lord,  Thou  hast  been  thy  people's  rest. 
Through  all  their  generations. 

Their  refuge  when  by  danger  prest, 
Their  hope  m  tribulations  ; 

Thou,  ere  the  mountains  sprang  to  birth, 

Or  ever  Thou  hadst  form'd  the  earth, 
Art  God  from  everlasting. 

The  sons  of  men  return  to  clay. 
When  Thou  the  word  hast  spoken, 

As  with  a  torrent  borne  away. 
Gone  like  a  dream  when  broken : 

A  thousand  years  are,  in  thy  sight. 

But  as  a  watch  amid  the  night, 
Or  yesterday  departed. 

At  mom,  we  flourish  like  the  grass 
With  dew  and  sunbeams  lighted, 

But  ere  the  cool  of  evening  pass, 
The  rich  array  is  blighted  : 

Thus  do  lliy  chastisements  consume 

Youth's  tender  leaf  and  beauty's  bloom : 
We  fade  at  thy  displeasure. 

Our  life  is  like  the  transient  breath 

That  tells  a  mournful  story. 
Early  or  late,  stopt  short  by  death : 

And  where  is  all  our  glory  ? 
Our  days  are  threescore  years  and  ten. 
And  if  the  span  be  lengthen'd  then. 

Their  strength  is  toil  and  sorrow. 

Lo,  thou  hast  set  before  thine  eyes 

All  our  misdeeds  and  errors  : 
Our  secret  sins  from  darkness  rise, 

At  thine  awakening  terrors: 
Who  shall  abide  the  trying  hour  ? 
Who  knows  the  thunder  of  thy  power? 

We  flee  unto  thy  mercy. 

Lord,  teach  us  so  to  mark  our  days, 
That  we  may  prize  them  duly ; 

So  guide  our  feet  in  Wisdom's  waj'-s, 
That  we  may  love  thee  truly : 

Return,  O  Lord,  our  griefs  behold. 

And  with  thy  goodness,  as  of  old, 
0  satisfy  us  early. 

Restore  our  comforts  as  our  fears. 

Our  joy  as  our  affliction  ; 
Give  to  thy  church,  through  changing  years 

Increasing  benediction  ; 
Thy  glorious  beauty  there  reveal. 
And  with  thy  perfect  image  seal 

TJiy  servants  and  their  labors. 


PSALM  XCL 

Call  Jehovah  thy  salvation. 

Rest  beneath  the  Almighty's  shade , 

In  his  secret  habitation 

Dwell,  nor  ever  be  dismay'd  : 

263 


80 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  no  tumult  can  alarm  thee, 
Thou  shall  dread  no  hidden  snare  ; 

Guile  nor  violence  can  harm  thee, 
In  eternal  safeguard  there. 

From  the  sword  at  noon-day  wasting, 

From  the  noisome  pestilence, 
In  the  depth  of  midnight  blasting, 

God  shall  be  thy  sure  defence  : 
Fear  not  thou  the  deadly  quiver, 

When  a  thousand  feel  the  blow  ; 
Mercy  shall  thy  soul  deliver, 

Though  ten  thousand  be  laid  low. 

Only  with  thine  eye,  the  anguish 

Of  the  wicked  thou  shalt  see, 
When  by  slow  disease  they  languish, 

When  they  perish  suddenly  : 
Thee,  though  winds  and  waves  be  swelling, 

God,  thine  hope,  shall  bear  through  all  ; 
Plague  shall  not  come  nigh  thy  dweUing, 

Thee  no  evil  shall  befall. 

He  shall  charge  his  an  gel -legions, 

Watch  and  ward  o'er  thee  to  keep, 
Though  thou  walk  through  hostile  regions, 

Though  in  desert-wilds  thou  sleep : 
On  the  lion  vainly  roaring, 

On  his  young,  thy  foot  shall  tread. 
And,  the  dragon's  den  exploring, 

Thou  shalt  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 

Since,  with  pure  and  firm  affection, 

Thou  on  God  hast  set  thy  love, 
With  the  vvings  of  his  prolection. 

He  will  shield  thee  from  above: 
Thou  shalt  call  on  Him  in  trouble, 

He  will  hearken.  He  will  save. 
Here  for  grief  reward  thee  double, 

Crown  with  life  beyond  the  grave. 


PSALM  xcm. 

The  Lord  is  King : — upon  his  throne 
He  sits  in  garments  glorious ; 

Or  girds  for  war  his  armor  on, 
In  every  field  victorious  : 

The  world  came  forth  at  his  command  \ 

Built  on  his  word,  its  pillars  stand ; 
They  never  can  be  shaken. 

The  Lord  was  King  ere  time  began. 

His  reign  is  everlasting ; 
When  high  the  floods  in  tumult  ran, 

Their  foam  to  heaven  up-casting. 
He  made  the  raging  waves  his  path ; 
— ^The  sea  is  mighty  in  its  wrath, 

But  God  on  high  is  mightier. 

Thv'  testimonies,  Lord,  are  sure  : 
Thy  realm  fears  no  commotion. 

Firm  as  the  earth,  whose  shores  endure 
The  eternal  toil  of  ocean. 

And  Thou  with  perfect  peace  wilt  bless 

*i  hy  faithful  flock : — for  holiness 
Becomes  thine  house  for  ever. 


PSALM  XCV. 

O  COME,  let  us  sing  to  the  Lord, 

In  God  our  salvation  rejoice  ; 
In  psalms  of  thanksgiving  record 

His  praise,  with  one  spirit,  one  voice  : 
For  Jehovah  is  King,  and  He  reigns. 

The  God  of  all  gods,  on  his  throne ; 
The  strength  of  the  hills  He  maintains, 

The  ends  of  the  earth  are  his  own 

The  sea  is  Jehovah's — He  made 

The  tide  its  dominion  to  know  ; 
The  land  is  Jehovah's — He  laid 

Its  solid  foundations  below. 
O  come  let  us  worship,  and  kneel 

Before  our  Creator,  our  God  ; 
— The  people  \\ho  serve  Him  with  zeal. 

— The  flock  whom  He  guides  with  his  rod 

As  Moses,  the  fathers  of  old, 

Through  the  sea  and  the  wilderness  led. 
His  wonderful  works  to  behold. 

With  manna  from  heaven  are  fed : 
To-day,  let  us  hearken,  to-day, 

To  the  voice  that  yet  speaks  from  above. 
And  all  his  commandments  obey, 

For  all  his  commandments  are  love. 

His  wrath  let  us  fear  to  provoke, 

To  dwell  in  his  favor  unite; 
His  service  is  freedom,  his  yoke 

Is  easy,  his  burden  is  light : 
But,  oh  !  of  rebellion  beware. 

Rebellion,  that  hardens  the  breast, 
Lest  God  in  his  anger  should  swear 

That  we  shall  not. enter  his  rest 


PSALM  C. 

Be  joyful  in  God,  all  ye  lands  of  the  earth, 
O  serve  him  with  gladness  and  fear ; 

Exult  in  his  presence  with  music  and  mirth, 
With  love  and  devotion  draw  near. 

For  Jehovah  is  God, — and  Jehovah  alone. 

Creator  and  ruler  o'er  all ; 
And  we  are  his  people,  his  sceptre  we  own ; 

His  sheep,  and  we  follow  his  call. 

0  enter  his  gates  with  thanksgiving  and  song, 
Your  vows  in  his  temple  proclaim ; 

His  praise  with  melodious  accordance  prolong. 
And  bless  his  adorable  name. 

For  good  is  the  Lord,  inexpressibly  good, 
And  we  are  the  work  of  his  hand ; 

His  mercy  and  truth  from  eternity  stood, 
And  shall  to  eternity  stand. 


PSALM  cm. 

0  ?iY  soul,  with  all  thy  powers. 
Bless  the  Lord's  most  holy  name; 

O  my  soul,  till  life's  last  hours. 

Bless  the  Lord,  his  praise  proclaim ; 
264 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


81 


Thine  infirmities  He  heal'd  ; 
He  thy  peace  and  pardon  seal'd. 

He  with  loving  kindness  crown'd  thee, 

Satisfied  thy  mouth  with  good  ; 
From  the  snares  of  death  unbound  thee, 
Eagle-like  thy  youth  renew'd  : 
Rich  in  tender  mercy  He, 
Slow  to  wrath,  to  favor  free. 

He  will  not  retain  displeasure. 

Though  awhile  He  hide  his  face ; 
Nor  his  God-like  bounty  measure 
By  our  merit,  but  his  grace ; 

As  the  heaven  the  earth  transcends, 
Over  us  his  care  extends. 

Far  as  east  and  west  are  parted, 
He  our  sins  hath  sever'd  thus  ; 
As  a  father  loving-hearted 
Spares  his  son,  He  spareth  us  ; 
For  He  knows  our  feeble  frame, 
He  remembers  whence  we  came. 

Mark  the  field-flower,  where  it  groweth, 

Frail  and  beautiful ; — anon. 
When  the  south- wind  softly  bloweth. 
Look  again, — the  flower  is  gone : 
Such  is  man  ;  his  honors  pass, 
Like  the  glory  of  the  grass. 

From  eternity,  enduring 

To  eternity, — the  Lord, 
Still  his  people's  bliss  insuring. 
Keeps  his  covenanted  word  ; 

Yea,  with  truth  and  righteousness, 
Children's  children  He  will  bless. 

As  in  heaven,  his  throne  and  dwelling. 

King  on  earth  He  holds  his  sway ; 
Angels,  ye  in  strength  excelling. 
Bless  the  Lord,  his  voice  obey  ; 
All  his  works  beneath  the  pole. 
Bless  the  Lord,  with  thee,  my  soul. 


PSALM  CIV 


My  soul,  adore  the  Ix)rd  of  might ; 

With  uncreated  glory  crown'd. 
And  clad  in  royalty  of  light. 
He  draws  the  curtain'd  heavens  around  ; 
Dark  waters  his  pavilion  form. 
Clouds  are  his  car,  his  wheels  the  storm. 

Lightning  before  Him,  and  behind 
Thunder  rebounding  to  and  fro ; 
He  walks  upon  the  winged  wind. 
And  reins  the  blast,  or  lets  it  go : 
— This  goodly  globe  his  wisdom  plann'd. 
He  fix'd  the  bounds  of  sea  and  land. 

When  o'er  a  guilty  world,  of  old. 

He  summon'd  the  avenging  main. 
At  his  rebuke  the  billows  roU'd 
Back  to  their  parent  gulf  again  ; 

The  mountains  raised  their  joyful  heads. 
Like  new  creations,  from  their  beds. 
34  X 


Thenceforth  the  self  revolving  tide 
Its  daily  fall  and  flow  maintains  ; 
Through  winding  vales  fresh  Ibuniains  glide 
Leap  from  tlie  hills,  or  course  the  plains ; 
There  thii-sty  cattle  throng  the  brink. 
And  the  wild  asses  bend  to  drink. 

Fed  by  the  currents,  fruitful  groves 

Expand  their  leaves,  their  fragrance  fling, 
Where  the  cool  breeze  at  noon-tide  roves, 
And  birds  among  the  branches  sing ; 

Soft  fall  the  showers  when  day  declines, 
And  sweet  the  peaceful  rainbow  shines. 

Grass  through  the  meadows,  rich  with  flowers, 

God's  bounty  spreads  for  herds  and  floclts ; 
On  Lebanon  his  cedar  towers, 

The  wild  goat  bounds  upon  his  rocks ; 
Fowls  in  his  forests  build  their  nests, 
The  stork  amid  the  pine-tree  rests. 

To  strengthen  man,  condemn'd  to  toil. 
He  fills  with  grain  the  golden  ear; 
Bids  the  ripe  olive  melt  with  oil. 

And  swells  the  grape,  man's  heart  to  cheer: 
— The  moon  her  tide  of  changing  knows, 
Her  orb  with  lustre  ebbs  and  flows. 

The  sun  goes  down,  the  stars  come  out: 
He  maketh  darkness,  and  't  is  night  ; 
Then  roam  the  beasts  of  prey  about, 
The  desert  rings  with  chase  and  flight  : 
The  lion,  and  the  lion's  brood. 
Look  up, — and  God  provides  them  food. 

Morn  dawns  far  east ;  ere  long  the  sun 

Warms  the  glad  nations  with  his  beams ; 
Day,  in  their  dens,  the  spoilers  shun, 
And  night  returns  to  them  in  dreams : 
Man  f]'om  his  couch  to  labor  goes, 
Till  evening  brings  again  repose. 

How  manifold  thy  works,  O  Lord, 

In  wisdom,  power,  and  goodness  wrought! 
The  earth  is  with  thy  riches  stored. 
And  ocean  with  thy  wonders  fraught : 
Unfathom'd  caves  beneath  the  deep 
For  Thee  their  hidden  treasures  keep. 

There  go  the  ships,  with  sails  unfurl'd, 

By  Thee  directed  on  their  way; 
There,  in  his  own  mysterious  world. 
Leviathan  dehghts  to  play  ; 

And  tribes  that  range  immensity. 
Unknown  to  man,  are  known  to  Thee. 

By  Thee  alone  the  living  live ; 

Hide  but  thy  face,  their  comforts  fly; 
They  gather  what  thy  seasons  give : 

Take  Thou  aw  ay  their  breath,  they  die : 
Send  forth  thy  spirit  from  above. 
And  all  is  life  again,  and  love 

Joy  in  his  works  Jehovah  takes. 

Yet  to  destruction  they  return ; 
He  looks  upon  the  earth,  it  quakes 

Touches  the  mountains,  and  they  burn 
265 


82 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— Thou,  God,  for  ever  art  the  same  ; 
I  AM  is  thine  unchanging  name. 


PSALM  cvn. 

No.1. 

Thank  and  praise  Jehovah's  name, 
For  his  mercies,  firm  and  sure, 

From  eternity,  the  same, 
To  eternity  endure. 

Let  the  ransom'd  thus  rejoice, 
Gather'd  out  of  every  land, 

As  the  people  of  his  choice  ; 

Pluck'd  from  the  destroyer's  hand. 

In  the  ^^■ilderness  astray, 

Hither,  thither,  while  they  roam. 
Hungry,  fainting  by  the  way, 

Far  from  refuge,  shelter,  home  : 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  crj', 
He  inclines  a  gracious  ear. 

Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 
Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

To  a  pleasant  land  He  brings, 
Where  the  vine  and  olive  grow, 

Where  from  flowery  hills  the  springs 
Through  luxuriant  valleys  flow. 

O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace ! 


PSALM  cvn. 

No.  2. 

TiTEV  that  mourn  in  dungeon-gloom, 

Bound  in  iron  and  despair, 
Sentenced  to  a  heavier  doom 

Than  the  pangs  they  suffer  there  ; — 

Foes  and  rebels  once  to  God, 
They  disdain'd  his  high  control ; 

Now  they  feel  his  fier>'  rod 

Strildng  terrors  through  their  soul. 

Wrung  \\ith  agony  they  fall 
To  the  dust ;  and,  gazing  round. 

Call  for  help : — in  vain  they  call. 
Help,  nor  hope,  nor  friend  are  found. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry : 

He  inclines  a  gracious  ear, 
Sends  deliverance  from  on  high, 

Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

He  restores  their  forfeit-breath, 

Breaks  in  twain  the  gates  of  brass ; 

From  the  bands  and  grasp  of  death, 
Forth  to  liberty  they  pass. 


O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace  ! 


PSALM  CVIL 
No.  3. 

Fools,  for  their  transgression,  see 
Sharp  disease  their  youth  consume. 

And  their  beauty,  like  a  tree, 
Withering  o'er  an  early  tomb. 

Food  is  loathsome  to  their  taste. 
And  the  eye  revolts  from  light; 

All  their  joys  to  ruin  haste. 
As  the  sun-set  into  night. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry : 
He  inclines  a  gracious  ear. 

Sends  deliverance  from  on  high. 
Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

He  with  health  renews  their  frame, 
Lengthens  out  their  number'd  days 

Let  them  glorify  his  name 
With  the  sacrifice  of  praise. 

O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace ! 


PSALM  C\1L 
No.  4. 

They  that  toil  upon  the  deep. 
And  in  vessels  light  and  frail. 

O'er  the  mighty  waters  sweep 
With  the  billow  and  the  gale, — 

Mark  what  w^onders  God  performs, 
When  He  speaks,  and,  unconfined. 

Rush  to  battle  ail  his  storms 
In  the  cha.'-iots  of  the  wind. 

Up  to  heaven  their  bark  is  whirl'd 
On  the  mountain  of  the  wave ; 

DowTi  as  suddenly  'tis  hurl'd 
To  the  abysses  of  the  grave. 

To  and  fro  they  reel,  they  roll, 

As  intoxicate  with  wine ; 
Terrors  paralyze  their  soul. 

Helm  they  quit,  and  hope  resign. 

Then  unto  the  Lord  they  cry. 
He  inclines  a  gracious  ear, 

Sends  deliverance  from  on  high. 
Rescues  them  from  all  their  fear. 

Calm  and  smooth  the  surges  flow, 
And,  where  deadly  lightning  ran, 

God's  own  reconciling  bow 
Metes  the  ocean  with  a  span. 

2C6 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


83 


O  that  men  would  praise  the  Lord, 
For  his  goodness  to  their  race ; 

For  the  wonders  of  his  word, 
And  the  riches  of  his  grace .' 


PSALM  CVII. 
No.  5. 

Let  the  elders  praise  the  Lord, 
Him  let  all  the  people  praise, 

When  they  meet  with  one  accord 
In  his  courts,  on  holy  days. 

God  for  sin  will  vengeance  take, 
Smite  the  earth  with  sore  distress, 

And  a  fruitful  region  make 
As  the  howling  wilderness. 

But  when  mercy  stays  his  hand. 
Famine,  plague,  and  death  depart ; 

Yea,  the  rock,  at  his  command. 
Pours  a  river  from  its  heart. 

There  the  hungry  dwell  in  peace, 
Cities  build,  and  plow  the  ground, 

While  their  flocks  and  herds  increase. 
And  their  com  and  wine  abound. 

Should  they  yet  rebel, — his  arm 
Lays  their  pride  again  in  dust : 

But  the  poor  He  shields  from  harm. 
And  in  Him  the  righteous  trust. 

Whoso  wisely  marks  his  will, 
Thus  evolving  bliss  from  woe. 

Shall,  redeem'd  from  every  ill, 
All  his  loving  kindness  know. 


PSALM  cxm. 

Servants  of  God,  in  joyful  lays. 
Sing  ye  the  Lord  Jehovah's  praise ; 
His  glorious  name  let  all  adore. 
From  age  to  age,  for  evermore. 

Blest  be  that  name,  supremely  blest, 
From  the  sun's  rising  to  its  rest ; 
Above  the  heavens  his  power  is  known, 
Through  all  the  earth  his  goodness  shouTi. 

Who  is  like  God  ? — so  great,  so  high. 
He  bows  himself  to  view  the  sky ; 
And  yet,  with  condescending  grace, 
Ix>oks  down  upon  the  human  race. 

He  hears  the  uncomplaining  moan 
Of  those  who  sit  and  weep  alone ; 
He  Hfts  the  mourner  from  the  dust. 
And  saves  the  poor  in  Him  that  trust 

Servants  of  God,  in  joyful  lays. 
Sing  ye  the  Lord  Jehovah's  praise  ; 
His  saving  name  let  all  adore, 
From  age  to  age,  for  evermore. 


PSALM  CXVI. 
I  LOVE  the  Lord ; — He  lent  an  ear 

When  I  for  help  implored  ; 
He  rescued  me  from  all  my  fear. 

Therefore  I  love  the  Lord. 

Bound  hand  and  foot  with  chains  of  sm. 
Death  dragg'd  me  for  his  prey ; 

The  pit  was  moved  to  take  me  in, 
All  hope  was  far  away. 

I  cried  in  agony  of  mind, 

"  Lord,  I  beseech  Thee,  save  : " 

He  heard  me ; — Death  his  prey  resign'd, 
And  Mercy  shut  the  grave. 

Return,  my  soul,  unto  thy  rest. 

From  God  no  longer  roam  ; 
His  hand  hath  bountifully  blest. 

His  goodness  call'd  thee  home. 

What  shall  I  render  unto  Thee, 

My  savior  in  distress. 
For  all  thy  benefits  to  me, 

So  great  and  numberless  ? 

This  will  I  do,  for  thy  love's  sake, 
And  thus  thy  power  proclaim ; 

The  sacramental  cup  I  '11  take. 
And  call  upon  thy  name. 

Thou  God  of  covenanted  grace, 

Hear  and  record  my  vow. 
While  in  thy  courts  I  seek  thy  face 

And  at  thine  altar  bow : 

Henceforth  to  Thee  myself  I  give ; 

With  single  heart  and  eye, 
To  walk  before  Thee  while  I  live. 

And  bless  Thee  when  I  die. 


PSALM  CXVIL 

All  ye  Gentiles,  praise  the  Lord, 
All  ye  lands,  your  voices  raise : 

Heaven  and  earth,  with  loud  accord, 
Praise  the  Lord,  for  ever  praise. 

For  his  truth  and  mercy  stand. 
Past,  and  present,  and  to  be, 

Like  the  years  of  his  right  hand. 
Like  his  own  eternity. 

Praise  Him.  ye  who  know  his  love. 
Praise  Him  from  the  depths  beneath, 

Praise  Him  in  the  heights  above  ; 
Praise  your  Maker,  all  that  breathe. 


PSALM  CXXL 

Encompass'd  with  ten  thousand  ills, 

Prest  by  pursuing  foes, 
I  lift  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills 

From  whence  salvation  flows. 

267 


«4 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  help  is  from  the  Lord,  who  made 
And  governs  earth  and  sky ; 

I  look  to  his  almighty  aid, 
And  ever-watching  eye. 

— He  who  thy  soul  in  safety  keeps, 
Shall  drive  destruction  hence  ; 

The  Lord  thy  keeper  never  sleeps; 
The  Lord  is  thy  defence. 

The  sun,  with  his  afflictive  light, 
Shai  I  harm  thee  not  by  day  ; 

Nor  thee  the  moon  molest  by  night 
Along  thy  tranquil  way. 

Thee  shall  the  Lord  preserve  from  sin, 

And  comfort  in  distress; 
Thv  going  out  and  coming  in. 

The  Lord  thy  God  shall  bless. 


PSALM  CXXII 

Glad  was  my  heart  to  hear 

My  old  companions  say. 
Come — in  the  house  of  God  appear. 

For  't  is  an  holy  day. 

Our  willing  feet  shall  stand 

Within  the  temple-door, 
While  young  and  old,  in  many  a  band, 

Shall  throng  the  sacred  floor. 

Thither  the  tribes  repair, 
W^here  all  are  wont  to  meet. 

And,  joyful  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
Bend  at  the  mercy-seat. 

Pray  for  Jerusalem, 

The  city  of  our  God  ; 
The  Lord  from  heaven  be  kind  to  them 

That  love  the  dear  abode. 

Within  these  walls  may  peace 

And  harmony  be  found  ; 
Zion,  in  all  thy  palaces, 

Prosperity  abound ! 

For  friends  and  brethren  dear. 
Our  prayer  shall  never  cease ; 

Oft  as  they  meet  for  worship  here, 
God  send  his  people  peace  ! 


PSALM  CXXIV. 

The  Lord  is  on  our  side. 

His  people  now  may  say ; 
The  Lord  is  on  our  side, — or  we 

Had  fallen  a  sudden  prey. 

Sin,  Satan,  Death,  and  Hell, 

I,ike  fire,  against  us  rose  ; 
Then  had  the  flames  consumed  us  quick. 

But  God  repell'd  our  foes. 


Like  water  they  retum'd, 

When  wildest  tempests  rave  ; 
Then  had  the  floods  gone  o'er  our  head. 

But  God  was  there  to  save. 

From  jeopardy  redeem'd, 

As  from  the  lion's  wrath, 
Mercy  and  truth  uphold  our  life, 

And  safety  guards  our  puth. 

Our  soul  escaped  the  toils  ; 

As  from  the  fowler's  snare. 
The  bird,  with  disentangled  wings, 

Flits  through  the  boundless  air. 

Our  help  is  from  the  Lord  ; 

In  Him  we  Avill  confide, 
Who  stretch'd  the  heavens,  who  form'd  the  earth . 

— The  Lord  is  on  our  side. 


PSALM  CXXV. 

Who  make  the  Lord  of  hosts  their  tower. 

Shall  like  Mount  Zion  be. 
Immovable  by  mortal  power. 

Built  OD  eternity. 

As  round  about  Jenisalem, 

The  guardian  mountains  stand, 

So  shall  ihe  Lord  encompass  them 
Who  hold  by  his  right  hand. 

The  rod  of  wickedness  shall  ne'er 

Against  the  just  prevail. 
Lest  innocence  should  find  a  snare, 

And  tempted  virtue  fail. 

Do  good,  O  Lord,  do  good  to  those 
Who  cleave  to  Thee  in  heart, 

W^ho  on  thy  truth  alone  repose. 
Nor  from  thy  law  depart. 

While  rebel-souls,  who  turn  aside. 

Thine  anger  shall  destroy. 
Do  Thou  in  peace  thy  people  guide 

To  thine  eternal  joy. 


PSALM  CXXVl 

When  God  from  sin's  captivity 
Sets  his  afflicted  people  free, 
Lost  in  amaze,  their  mercies  seem 
The  transient  raptures  of  a  dream. 

But  soon  their  ransom'd  souls  rejoice. 
And  mirth  and  music  swell  their  voice, 
Till  foes  confess,  nor  dare  condemn, 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  them. 

They  catch  the  strain,  and  answer  thus  : 
"  The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  us, 
Whence  gladness  fills  our  hearts,  and  songs. 
Sweet  and  spontaneous,  wake  our  tongues." 

368 


SONGS  OF  ZION. 


85 


Turn  our  capfi\nty,  O  Lord, 
As  southern  rivers,  at  thy  word, 
Bound  from  their  channels,  and  restore 
Plenty,  where  all  was  waste  before 

\Vho  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy ; 
Nought  shall  the  precious  seed  destroy, 
Nor  long  the  weeping  exiles  roam. 
But  bring  their  sheaves  rejoicing  home. 


PSALM  CXXX. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  woe 

To  Thee,  0  Lord,  I  cry ; 
Darkness  surrounds  me,  but  I  know 

That  Thou  art  ever  nigh. 

Then  hearken  to  my  voice, 

Give  ear  to  my  complaint  ; 
Thou  bidst  the  mourning  soul  rejoice, 

Thou  comfortest  the  faint. 

I  cast  my  hope  on  Thee, 

Thou  canst.  Thou  wilt  forgive ; 
Wert  Thou  to  mark  iniquity. 

Who  in  thy  sight  could  live  ? 

Humbly  on  Thee  T  wait. 

Confessing  all  my  sin  ; 
Lord,  I  am  knocking  at  thy  gate ; 

Open,  and  take  me  in. 

Like  them,  whose  longing  eyes 

Watch,  till  the  morning  star 
(Though  late  and  seen  through  tempests)  rise 

Heaven's  portals  to  unbar : — 

Like  them  I  watch  and  pray, 

And  though  it  tarry  long. 
Catch  the  first  gleam  of  welcome  day, 

Then  burst  into  a  song. 

Glory  to  God  above  ; 

The  waters  soon  will  cease. 
For,  lo  I  the  swift  returning  dove 

Brings  home  the  sign  of  peace. 

Though  storms  his  face  obscure, 

And  dangers  threaten  loud, 
Jehovah's  covenant  is  sure, 

His  bow  is  in  the  cloud. 


PSALM  CXXXI. 

Lord,  for  ever  at  thy  side 
Let  my  place  and  portion  be ; 

Strip  me  of  the  robe  of  pride, 
Clothe  me  with  humility. 

Meekly  may  my  soul  receive 
All  thy  spirit  hath  reveal'd ; 

Thou  hast  spoken ; — I  believe, 
Though  the  prophecy  were  seal'd. 


X2 


Quiet  as  a  weaned  child, 

Weaned  from  the  mother's  breast ; 
By  no  subtlety  beguiled, 

On  thy  faithful  word  I  rest. 

Saints,  rejoicing  evermore. 
In  the  Lord  Jehovah  trust : 

Him  in  all  his  ways  adore. 

Wise,  and  wonderful,  and  just 


PSALM  cxxxn. 

No.  L 

God  in  his  temples  let  us  meet, 

Low  on  our  knees  before  Him  bend , 

Here  hath  He  fix'd  his  mercy-seat, 
Here  on  his  Sabbath  we  attend. 

Arise  into  thy  resting-place, 

Tliou,  and  thine  ark  of  strength,  O  Lord 
Shine  through  the  veil,  we  seek  thy  face ; 

Speak,  for  we  hearken  to  thy  word. 

With  righteousness  thy  priests  array ; 

Joyful  thy  chosen  people  be ; 
Let  those  who  teach  and  those  who  pray 

Let  all — be  holiness  to  Thee. 


PSALM  cxxxn. 

No.  2. 

Lord,  for  thy  servant  David's  sake, 
Perform  thine  oath  to  David's  son ; — 

Thy  truth  Thou  never  wilt  forsake  ; — 
Look  on  thine  own  Anointed  One. 

The  Lord  in  faithfulness  hath  sworn 
His  throne  for  ever  to  maintain  ; 

From  realm  to  realm,  the  sceptre  borne 
Shall  stretch  o'er  earth  Messiah's  reign 

Zion !  my  chosen  hill  of  old, 

My  rest,  my  dwelling,  my  delight. 

With  loving  kindness  I  uphold. 
Her  walls  are  ever  in  my  sight. 

I  satisfy  her  poor  with  bread, 

Her  tables  with  abundance  bless, 

Joy  on  her  sons  and  daughters  shed, 

And  clothe  her  priests  with  righteousness 

There  David's  horn  shall  bud  and  bloom. 
The  branch  of  glory  and  renown ; 

His  foes  my  vengeance  shall  consume ; 
Him  with  eternal  years  I  crown. 


PSALM  cxxxm 

How  beautiful  the  sight 

Of  brethren  who  agree 
In  friendship  to  imite. 

And  bonds  of  charity  ; 
'T  is  like  the  precious  ointment,  shed 
O'er  all  his  robes,  from  Aaron's  head. 
869 


86 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'T  is  like  the  dews  that  fill 

The  cups  of  Harmon's  flowers ; 

Or  Zion's  fniilful  hill, 

Bright  with  the  drops  of  showers, 

When  mingling  odors  breathe  around, 

And  glory  rests  on  all  the  ground. 

For  there  the  Lord  commands 
Blessing,  a  boundless  store, 

From  his  unsparing  hands. 
Yea,  life  for  evermore  : 

Thrice  happy  they  who  meet  above 

To  spend  eternity  in  love ! 


PSALM  CXXXIV. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  with  solemn  rite, 
In  hymns  extol  his  name. 

Ye  who,  within  his  house  by  night, 
Watch  round  the  altar's  flame. 

Lift  up  your  hands  amid  the  place 
Where  bums  the  sacred  sign. 

And  pray,  that  thus  Jehovah's  face 
O'er  all  the  earth  may  shine. 

From  Zion,  from  his  holy  hill. 
The  Lord  our  Maker  send 

The  perfect  knowledge  of  his  will, 
Salvation  without  end. 


PSALM  CXXXVII. 
Where  Babylon's  broad  rivers  roll, 

In  exile  we  sate  down  to  weep, 
For  thoughts  of  Zion  o'er  our  soul 

Came,  like  departed  joys,  in  sleep, 
Whose  forms  to  sad  remembrance  rise. 
Though  fled  for  ever  from  our  eyes. 

Our  harps  upon  the  willows  hung. 

Where,  worn  with  toil,  our  limbs  reclined; 

The  chords,  untuned  and  trembling,  rung 
With  mournful  music  on  the  wind, 

While  foes,  insulting  o'er  our  wrongs. 

Cried, — "  Sing  us  one  of  Zion's  songs." 

How  can  we  sing  the  songs  we  love. 
Far  from  our  own  delightful  land  ? 

— If  I  prefer  thee  not  above 

My  chiefest  joy,  may  this  right  hand, 

Jerusalem  !  forget  its  skill, 

My  tongue  be  dumb,  my  pulse  be  still. 


PSALM  cxxxvni. 

Thee  will  I  praise,  O  Lord,  in  light, 
Where  seraphim  surround  thy  throne  ; 

With  heart  and  soul,  with  mind  and  might. 
Thee  will  I  worship,  Thee  alone. 

1  bow  toward  thy  holy  place  ; 

For  Thou,  in  mercy  still  the  same, 
Hast  magnified  thy  word  of  grace 

O'er  all  the  wonders  of  thy  name. 


In  peril,  when  I  cried  to  Thee, 

How  did  thy  strength  renew  my  soul! 

Kings  and  their  realms  might  bend  the  knee, 
Could  I  to  man  reveal  the  whole. 

Thou,  Lord,  above  all  height  art  high. 
Yet  wnth  the  lowly  w  ilt  Thou  dwell ; 

The  proud  far  off,  thy  jealous  eye 
Shall  mark,  and  with  a  lOok  repel. 

Though  in  the  depth  of  trouble  thrown. 
With  grief  I  shall  not  always  strive. 

Thou  wilt  thy  suflfering  servant  own, 
And  Thou  the  contrite  heart  revive 

Thy  purpose  then  in  me  fulfil ; 

Forsake  me  not,  for  I  am  thine ; 
Perfect  in  me  thine  utmost  will ; 

— Whate'er  it  be,  that  will  be  mine. 


PSALM  CXXXIX. 

Searcher  of  hearts,  to  thee  are  known 
The  inmost  secrets  of  my  breast ; 

At  home,  abroad,  in  crowds,  alone. 
Thou  mark'st  my  rising  and  my  rest. 

My  thoughts  far  off,  through  every  maze. 

Source,  stream,  and  issue, — all  my  ways. 

No  word  that  from  my  mouth  proceeds. 
Evil  or  good,  escapes  thine  ear ; 

Witness  Thou  art  to  all  my  deeds, 
Before,  behind,  for  ever  near : 

Such  knowledge  is  for  me  too  high ; 

I  live  but  in  my  Maker's  eye. 

How  from  thy  presence  should  I  go, 
Or  whither  from  thy  Spirit  flee. 

Since  all  above,  around,  below, 
Exist  in  thine  immensity  ? 

— If  up  to  heaven  I  take  my  way, 

I  meet  thee  in  eternal  day. 

If  in  the  grave  I  make  my  bed 

With  worms  and  dust,  lo.  Thou  art  theie 
If,  on  the  wings  of  morning  sped, 

Beyond  the  ocean  I  repair, 
I  feel  thine  all-controlling  will, 
And  thy  right  hand  upholds  me  still. 

"  Let  darkness  hide  me,"  if  I  say. 
Darkness  can  no  concealment  he : 

Night,  on  thy  rising,  shines  like  day. 
Darkness  and  light  are  one  with  Thee , 

For  Thou  mine  embryo-form  didst  view 

Ere  her  own  babe  my  mother  knew. 

In  me  thy  workmanship  display'd, 

A  miracle  of  pow'er  I  stand  ; 
Fearfully,  wonderfully  made. 

And  framed  in  secret  by  thy  hand  ; 
I  lived,  ere  into  being  brought. 
Through  thine  eternity  of  thought. 

270 


SONGS  OF  ZION.                                                 87 

How  precious  are  thy  thoughts  of  peace, 

PSALM  CXLIII. 

0  God,  to  me  !  how  great  the  sum ! 

New  ever>'  mom,  they  never  cease ; 

Hear  me,  0  Lord,  in  my  distress. 

They  were,  they  are,  and  yet  shall  come, 

Hear  me  in  truth  and  righteousness  ; 

In  number  and  in  compass,  more 

For  at  thy  bar  of  judgment  tried, 

Than  ocean's  sand,  or  ocean's  shore- 

None  living  can  be  justified. 

Search  me,  0  God,  and  know  my  heart, 

Lord  I  have  foes  without,  within, 

Try  me,  my  secret  soul  survey, 

The  world,  the  flesh,  indweUing  sin. 

And  warn  thy  servant  to  depart 

Life's  daily  ills,  temptation's  power. 

From  every  false  and  evil  way  ; 

And  Satan  roaring  to  devour. 

So  shall  thy  truth  my  guidance  be 
To  life  and  iramortaUty. 

These,  these  my  fainting  soul  surround. 
My  strength  is  smitten  to  the  ground  ; 

Like  those  long  dead,  beneath  their  weight 
Crush'd  is  my  heart  and  desolate. 

PSALM  CXLI. 

Yet,  in  the  gloom  of  silent  thought, 

Lord,  let  my  prayer  like  incense  rise, 

I  call  to  mind  what  God  hath  wrought. 
Thy  wonders  in  the  days  of  old, 

And  when  I  lift  my  hands  to  Thee, 

As  on  the  evening-sacrifice, 

Look  douTi  from  heaven,  well-pleased,  on  me. 

Thy  mercies  great  and  manifold. 

Ah !  then  to  Thee  I  stretch  my  hands, 

Set  Thou  a  watch  to  keep  my  tongue. 

Like  failing  streams  through  desert-sands: 

Let  not  my  heart  to  sin  incline ; 

I  thirst  for  Thee,  as  harvest  plains 

Save  me  from  men  who  practise  wrong. 

Parch'd  by  the  summer  thirst  for  rains. 

Let  me  not  share  their  mirth  and  wine. 

0  let  me  not  thus  hopeless  lie. 

But  let  the  righteous,  when  I  stray, 

Like  one  condemn'd  at  mom  to  die, 

Smite  me  in  love  ; — his  strokes  are  kind  ; 

But  with  the  morning  may  I  see 

His  mild  reproofs,  like  oil,  allay 

Thy  loving  kindness  visit  me. 

The  wounds  they  make,  and  heal  the  mind. 

Teach  me  thy  will,  subdue  my  ovm ; 
Thou  art  my  God,  and  Thou  alone ; 

Mine  eyes  are  unto  Thee,  my  God  ; 

Behold  me  humbled  in  the  dust ; 

By  thy  good  Spirit  guide  me  still, 

I  kiss  the  hand  that  wields  the  rod. 

Safe  from  all  foes,  to  Zion's  hill. 

I  own  thy  chastisements  are  just.      " 

Release  my  soul  from  trouble.  Lord ; 

But  0,  redeem  me  from  the  snares 

With  which  the  world  surrounds  my  feet. 

Quicken  and  keep  me  by  thy  word ; 
May  all  its  promises  be  mine  ; 

— Its  riches,  vanities,  and  cares, 

Be  Thou  my  portion — I  am  thine. 

Its  love  its  hatred,  its  deceit. 

PSALM  CXLH. 

PSALM  CXLIV. 

I  CRIED  unto  the  Lord  most  just, 

The  Lord  is  gracious  to  forgive. 

Most  merciful,  in  prayer  ; 

And  slow  to  let  his  anger  move ; 

I  cried  unto  Him  from  the  dust, 

The  Lord  is  good  to  all  that  live. 

I  told  Him  my  despair. 

And  all  his  tender  mercy  prove. 

"When  sunk  my  soul  within  me, — then 

Thy  works,  0  God,  thy  praise  proclaim; 

Thou  knew'st  the  path  I  chose  ; 

The  saints  thy  wondrous  deeds  shall  siog 

Unharm'd  I  pass'd  the  spoiler's  den, 

Extol  thy  power,  and  to  thy  name 

I  walk'd  through  ambush'd  foes. 

Homage  from  every  nation  bring. 

I  look'd  for  friends, — there  was  not  one 

Glorious  in  majesty  art  Thou  ; 

In  sorrow  to  condole  ; 

Thy  throne  for  ever  shall  endure ; 

I  look'd  for  refuge, — there  was  none ; 

Angels  before  thy  footstool  bow, 

None  cared  for  my  soul. 

Yet  dost  Thou  not  despise  the  poor. 

I  cried  unto  the  Lord ; — I  said, — 

The  Lord  upholdeth  them  that  fall  ; 

Thou  art  my  refuge  ;  Thou, 

He  raiseth  men  of  low  degree  ; 

My  portion  ;  hasten  to  mine  aid  ; 

0  God,  our  health,  the  eyes  of  all, 

Hear  and  deliver  now. 

Of  all  the  living,  wait  on  Thee. 

Now,  from  the  dungeon,  from  the  grave, — 

Thou  ojienest  thine  exhaustless  store, 

Exalt  thy  suppliant's  head  ; 

And  rainest  food  on  every  land  ; 

Thy  voice  is  freedom  to  the  slave. 

The  dumb  creation  Thee  adore. 

Revival  to  the  dead. 

And  eat  their  portion  from  ihy  hand. 

271 

88 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Man,  most  indebted,  most  ingrate, 
Man  only,  is  a  rebel  here ; 
Teach  him  to  know  Thee,  ere  too  late ; 
Teach  him  to  love  Thee,  and  to  fear. 


PSALM  CXLVIII. 

Heralds  of  creation  or}', 
— Praise  the  Lord,  the  Lord  most  high ; 
Heaven  and  earth,  obey  the  call, 
Praise  the  Lord,  the  Lord  of  all. 

For  He  spake,  and  forth  from  night 
Sprang  the  universe  to  light ; 
He  commanded, — Nature  heard, 
And  stood  fast  upon  his  word. 

Praise  Him,  all  ye  hosts  above, 
Spirits  perfected  in  love  ; 
Sun  and  moon,  your  voices  raise, 
Sing,  ye  stars,  your  Maker's  praise. 

Earth,  from  all  thy  depths  below, 
Ocean's  hallelujahs  flow ; 
Lightning,  vapor,  wind,  and  storm, 
Hail  and  snow,  his  will  perform. 


Vales  and  mountains,  burst  in  song ; 
Rivers,  roll  with  praise  along; 
Clap  your  hands,  ye  trees,  and  hail 
God,  who  comes  in  every  gale. 

Birds,  on  wings  of  rapture,  soar, 
Warble  at  his  temple-door; 
Joyful  sounds,  from  herds  and  flocks, 
Echo  back,  ye  caves  and  rocks. 

Kings,  your  Sovereign  serve  with  awe  . 
Judges,  own  his  righteous  law ; 
Princes,  worship  Him  with  fear; 
Bow  the  knee,  all  people  here. 

Let  his  truth  by  babes  be  told. 
And  his  wonders  by  the  old  ; 
Youths  and  maidens,  in  your  prime 
Learn  the  lays  of  heaven  betime. 

High  above  all  height  his  throne, 
Excellent  his  name  alone  ; 
Him  let  all  his  works  confess ; 
Him  let  every  being  bless. 


Elie  J^eltciin  3f^i^vca^ 


PREFACE. 


The  subject  of  this  Poem  was  suggested  by  a 
passage  in  Captain  Flinders's  Voyage  to  Terra  Aus- 
tralis.  Describing  one  of  those  numerous  gulfs  which 
indent  the  coast  of  New  Holland,  and  are  thickly 
spotted  with  small  islands,  he  says  : — "  Upon  two  of 
these  we  found  many  young  Pelicans  unable  to  fly. 
Flocks  of  the  old  birds  were  sitting  upon  the  beaches 
of  the  lag(X)n,  and  it  appeared  that  the  islands  were 
their  breeding-places  ;  not  only  so,  but,  from  the  num- 
ber of  skeletons  and  bones  there  scattered,  it  should 
seem  that  for  ages  these  had  been  selected  for  the 
closing  scene  of  their  existence.  Certainly,  none  more 
likely  to  be  free  from  disturbance  of  every  kind  could 
have  been  chosen,  than  these  islets  of  a  hidden  la- 
goon of  an  uninhabited  island  [called  by  Captain  F. 
Kangaroo  Island],  situate  upon  an  unknown  coast, 
near  the  antipodes  of  Europe  ;  Jior  can  anything  be 
more  consonant  to  their  feelings,  if  Pelicans  have  any, 
than  quietly  to  resign  their  breath,  surrounded  by 
their  progeny,  and  in  the  same  spot  where  they  first 
drew  it." — Captain  Flinders  was  particularly  struck 
with  the  appearance  of  one  of  these  islands,  on  the 
surface  of  which  were  scattered  the  relics  of  a  great 
number  of  trees,  prostrated  by  some  tremendous  storm, 
or,  as  he  conjectured,  self-ignited  by  the  friction  of 
dead  branches  in  a  strong  wind.  This  fact  (adopting 
the  former  hypothesis)  suggested  the  catastrophe  de- 
scribed at  the  close  of  the  third  Canto  of  the  Poem. 

Having  determined  not  to  encumber  his  volume 
with  notes,  which  might  plausibly  have  been  done  to 
a  great  extent, — and  believing,  that  those  readers, 


who  shall  be  sufTiciently  interested  in  the  poem  ti 
desire  further  knowledge  of  the  subjects  progress!  veh 
reviewed  in  it,  may  readily  satisfy  themselves  froa 
popular  books  of  voyages,  and  natural  history, — the 
Author  will  merely  offer,  in  this  place,  an  illustratioi 
of  the  nature  of  coral  reefs,  extracted  from  Captm 
Basil  Hall's  Voyage  to  the  Island  of  Loo  Choo,  ii 
the  Chinese  Sea. 

"  The  examination  of  a  coral  reef  during  the  din 
ferenl  stages  of  one  tide,  is  particularly  interesting 
When  the  tide  has  left  it  for  some  time,  it  become! 
dry,  and  appears  to  be  a  compact  rock,  exceedinglj 
hard  and  ragged;  but  as  the  tide  rises,  and  the  wave| 
begin  to  wash  over  it,  the  coral  worms  protrude  thei 
selves  from  holes  which  before  were  invisible.  The 
animals  are  of  a  great  variety  of  shapes  and  sizes,  ai 
in  such  prodigious  numbers,  that,  in  a  short  time,  t] 
whole  surface  of  the  rock  appears  to  be  alive  and 
motion.  The  most  common  worm  is  in  the  form  of  ^ 
star,  with  arms  from  four  to  six  inches  long,  whici 
are  moved  about  with  a  rapid  motion  in  all  directioni 
probably  to  catch  food.     Others  are  so  sluggish,  ths 
they  may  be  mistaken  for  pieces  of  the  rock,  and 
generally  of  a  dark  color,  and  from  four  to  five  inch( 
long,  and  two  or  three  round.     When  the  coral 
broken  about  high-water  mark,  it  is  a  solid  hard  stone 
but  if  any  part  of  it  be  detached  at  a  spot  which  th 
tide  reaches  every  day,  it  is  found  to  be  full  of  wc 
of  different  lengths  and  colors,  some  being  as  fine  £ 
a  thread  and  several  feet  long,  of  a  bright  yellov 
and  sometimes  of  a  blue  color ;  others  resemble  snail 
and  some  are  not  unlike  lobsters  in  shape,  but  sol 
and  not  above  two  inches  long. 

"  The  growtli  of  coral  appears  to  cease  when  tt 

272 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


89 


,vorm  is  no  longer  exposed  to  the  washing  of  the  sea. 
Thus  a  reef  rises  in  the  form  of  a  cauHflovver,  till  its 
op  has  gained  the  level  of  the  highest  tides,  above 
.vliich  the  worm  has  no  power  to  advance,  and  the 
■eef  of  course  no  longer  extends  itself  upwards.  The 
)ther  parts  in  succession  reach  the  surface,  and  there 
;top,  forming  in  time  a  level  field  with  steep  sides  all 
■ouad.  Tlie  reef,  however,  continually  increases,  and 
)eing  prevented  from  growing  higher,  extends  itself 
aterally  in  all  directions.  But  the  growtU being  as 
apid  at  the  upper  edge  as  it  is  lower  down,  tne  steep- 
less  of  the  face  of  the  reef  is  still  preserved.  These 
ire  the  circumstances  which  render  coral  reefs  so 
langerous  in  navigation  ,•  for,  in  the  first  place,  thev 
ire  seldom  seen  above  the  water ;  and,  in  the  next, 
heir  sides  are  so  steep,  that  a  ship's  bow  may  strike 
gainst  the  rock  before  any  change  of  soundings  has 
riven  warning  of  the  danger."  ' 

With  these  brief  quotations  to  explain  the  two 
»rincipal  circumstances  on  which  the  poem  is  found- 
d.  the  Author  abandons  his  "  Pehcan  Island"  to  the 
udcment  of  the  pubhc,  having  no  hope  to  conciliate 
iviir  by  apology  or  vindication,  where  he  has  pain 
ully  felt  that  both  would  be  necessarj',  if  the  success 
r  failure  of  his  work  did  not  wholly  depend  on  the 
lanner  in  which  it  has  been  executed.  He  only  re- 
uests  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind,  that  the  narrative 
;  supjwsed  to  be  delivered  by  the  imaginary  being 
v!i  )  witnesses  the  series  of  events,  afler  the  whole 
as  happened,  and  who  therefore  describes  them  in 
Lich  language,  and  with  such  illustrations,  as  the 
niiwledge  which  he  then  possessed  enabled  him  to 
se.  whether  he  be  identified  with  the  Author,  or 
f  the  latter  will  so  far  condescend)  with  the  reader 
imself  as  spectator,  actor,  thinker,  in  this  masque 
iJe  of 

Truth  severe  by  fairy-fiction  drest. 

Sheffield,  July  19,  1827. 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


CANTO  L 

'  r-THOUGHT  I  lived  through  age?,  and  beheld 
.-  generations  pass  so  swiftly  by  me, 
years  were  moments  in  their  llight,  and  hours 
-cenes  of  crowded  centuries  reveal'd  ; 
.e  Time,  Life,  Death,  the  world's  great  actors 
wrought 
,'ew  and  amazing  changes : — these  I  sing. 

Sky,  siui,  and  sea,  were  all  the  universe  ; 
'he  sky,  one  blue  interminable  arch, 
Without  a  breeze,  a  wing,  a  cloud:  the  sun 
oV  in  the  firmament,  but  in  the  deep 
^  ibled;  where  the  circle  of  the  sea, 
ible  with  calmness,  seem'd  to  lie 
V  uliin  the  hollow  of  a  lower  heaven. 

I  was  a  Spirit  in  the  midst  of  these, 
^11  eye,  ear,  thought ;  existence  was  enjoyment ; 
■ight  was  an  element  of  life,  and  air 
'he  clothing  of  my  incorporeal  form, — 

form  impalpable  to  mortal  touch, 
35 


And  volatile  as  fragrance  from  the  flower, 

Or  music  in  the  woodlands.     What  the  soul 

Can  make  itself  at  pleasure,  that  I  was; 

A  child  in  feeling  and  imagination. 

Learning  new  lessons  still,  as  Nature  wrought 

Her  wonders  in  my  presence.     All  I  saw, 

(Like  Adam  when  he  walk'd  in  Paradise),' 

I  knew  and  named  by  secret  intuition. 

Actor,  spectator,  sufferer,  each  in  turn, 

1  ranged,  explored,  reflected.     Now  I  sail'd, 

And  now  I  soar'd  ;  anon  expanding,  seem'd 

Diffused  into  immensity,  yet  bound 

Within  a  space  too  narrow-  for  desire: 

The  mind,  the  mind  perpetual  themes  must  task 

Perpetual  power  impel,  and  hope  allure. 

I  and  the  silent  sun  were  here  alone. 

But  not  companions  ;  high  and  bright  he  held 

His  course ;  I  gazed  with  admiration  on  him, — 

There  all  communion  ended  ;  and  I  sigh'd. 

In  loneliness  unutterable  sigh'd. 

To  feel  myself  a  wanderer  without  aim, 

An  exile  amidst  splendid  desolation, 

A  prisoner  with  infinity  surrounded. 

The  sun  descended,  dipp'd,  and  disappear'd ; 
Then  sky  and  sea  were  all  the  universe. 
And  I  the  only  being  in  existence  I 
So  thought  I,  and  the  thought,  like  ice  and  fire, 
Went  freezing,  burning,  withering,  thrilling  through 

me. 
Annihilation  then  had  been  deliverance. 
While  that  eternity  of  solitude 
Lay  on  my  heart,  hard  struggling  to  break  free, 
As  from  a  dream,  when  mountains  press  the  sleeper. 

Darkness,  meanwhile,  disguised  in  twilight,  crept 
O'er  air  and  ocean ;  drearier  gloom  involved 
My  fainting  senses,  till  a  sudden  ray 
Of  pensile  lustre  sparkled  from  the  west : 
I  flew  to  meet  it,  but  drew  never  nearer. 
While,  vanishing  and  reappearing  oft. 
At  length  it  trembled  out  into  a  star. 
My  soul  revived,  and  could  I  then  have  wept 
(Methought  I  did)  with  tears  of  fond  delight. 
How  had  I  hail'd  the  gentle  apparition. 
As  second  life  to  me ;  so  sweetly  welcome 
The  faintest  semblance  of  society, 
Though  but  a  point  to  rest  the  eye  upon. 
To  him  who  hath  been  utterly  bereaved ! 
— Star  after  star,  from  some  unseen  abyss 
Came  through  the  sky,  like  thoughts  into  the  mind 
We  know  not  whence ;  till  all  the  firmament 
Was  throng'd  w  ith  constellations,  and  the  sea 
Strown  with  their  images.    Amidst  a  sphere 
Oi^  twinkling  lights,  like  living  eyes,  that  look'd 
At  once  on  me  from  every  side,  I  stood 
(Motion  and  rest  with  me  were  mere  volition). 
Myself  perhaps  a  star  among  the  rest ! 
But  here  again  I  found  no  fellowship; 
Sight  could  not  reach,  nor  keenest  thought  conceive 
Their  nature  or  their  oflices.    To  me 
They  were  but  what  they  seem'd,  and  yet  I  felt 
They  must  be  more  :  the  mind  bath  no  horizon, 
It  looks  beyond  the  eve,  and  seeks  for  mind 
In  all  it  sees,  or  all  it  sees  o'erruUng. 

Low  in  the  east,  ere  long,  the  morning  dawn 
Shot  upward,  onward,  and  aroukd  the  pole, 

273 


90 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  arrowy  glimpses  traversing  the  shade. 
Night's  train,  as  they  had  kindled  one  by  one, 
Now  one  by  one  withdrew,  reversing  order, 
Where  those  that  came  the  latest,  earliest  went : 
Day  rose  triumphant,  and  again  to  me 
Sky,  sun,  and  sea,  were  all  the  universe ; 
But  ah !  the  glory  had  departed,  and  I  long'd 
For  some  untried  vicissitude  ; — it  came. 

A  breeze  sprang  up,  and  with  careering  wing 
Play'd  like  an  unseen  being  on  the  water. 
Slowly  from  slumber  woke  the  unwilling  main, 
Curling  and  murmuring,  till  the  infant  waves 
Leap'd  on  his  lap,  and  laugh'd  in  air  and  sunshine : 
Then  all  was  bright  and  beautiful  emotion, 
And  sweet  accordance  of  susurrant  sounds. 
I  felt  the  gay  delirium  of  the  scene ; 
I  felt  the  breeze  and  billow  chase  each  other, 
Like  bounding  pulses  in  my  human  veins : 
For,  though  impassive  to  the  elements. 
The  form  I  wore  was  exquisitely  tuned 
To  Nature's  sympathies ;  joy,  fear,  hope,  sorrow 
(As  though  I  yet  were  in  the  body)  moved, 
Elated,  shook,  or  tranquillized  ray  soul. 

Thus  pass'd  the  day:  night  follow'd,  deck'd  with 
stars 
Innumerable,  and  the  pale  new  moon. 
Beneath  her  feet,  a  slight  inverted  crescent. 
Soon  disappearing. 

Time  flew  on.  and  brought 
Alternate  morn  and  eve.    The  sun,  the  stars, 
The  moon  through  all  her  phases,  waxing,  waning, 
The  planets  seeking  rest,  and  linding  none, 
— These  were  the  only  objects  in  mine  eye, 
The  constant  burthen  of  my  thoughts,  perplex'd 
With  vain  conjectures  why  they  were  created. 

Once,  at  high  noon,  amidst  a  sultr}'  calm. 
Looking  around  for  comfort,  I  descried. 
Far  on  the  green  horizon's  utmost  verge, 
A  wreath  of  cloud  ;  to  me  a  glad  discover}^ 
For  each  new  image  sprang  a  new  idea, 
The  germ  of  thouglits  to  come,  that  could  not  die. 
The  little  vapor  rapidly  expanded, 
Lowering  and  thickening  till  it  hid  the  sun. 
And  threw  a  starless  night  upon  the  sea. 
Eagerly,  tremblingly,  I  watch'd  the  end. 
Faint  gleara'd  the  lightning,  follow'd  by  no  peal; 
Dreary  and  hollow  moans  foretold  a  gale ; 
Nor  long  the  issue  tarried ;  then  the  wind, 
Unprison'd,  blew  its  trumpet  loud  and  shrill ; 
Oat  flash'd  the  lightnings  gloriou?ly ;  the  rain 
Came  down  like  music,  and  the  full-toned  thunder 
RoU'd  in  grand  harmony  throughout  high  heaven  : 
Till  ocean,  breaking  from  his  black  supineness, 
Drown'd  in  his  own  stupendous  uproar  all 
The  voices  of  the  storm  beside ;  meanwhile 
A  war  of  mountains  raged  ujwn  his  surface  ; 
Mountains  each  other  swallowing,  and  again 
New  Alps  and  Andes,  from  unfithom'd  valleys 
Upstarting,  join'd  the  battle;  like  those  sons 
Of  Earth, — giants,  rebounding  as  new-born 
From  everv  fall  on  their  unwearied  mother. 
I  glow'd  with  all  the  rapture  of  the  strife : 
Beneath  was  one  wild  whirl  of  foaming  surges ; 


Above  the  array  of  lightnings,  like  the  swords 
Of  cherubim,  wide  brandish'd,  to  repel 
Aggression  from  heaven's  gates ;  their  flaming  strokea 
Quench'd  momentarily  in  the  vast  abyss. 

The  voice  of  Him  who  walks  upon  the  wind, 
And  sets  his  throne  upon  the  floods,  rebuked 
The  headlong  tempest  in  its  mid-career. 
And  turn'd  its  horrors  to  magnificence. 
The  evening  sun  broke  through  the  embattled  clouds 
And  threw  round  sky  and  sea,  as  by  enchantment, 
A  radiant  girdle,  binding  them  to  peace, 
In  the  full  rainbow's  harmony  of  beams ; 
No  brilliant  fragment,  but  one  sevenfold  circle, 
That  spann'd  the  horizon,  meted  out  the  heavens, 
And  under-arch'd  the  ocean.    'T  w  as  a  scene. 
That  left  itself  for  ever  on  my  mind. 

Night,  silent,  cool,  transparent,  crown'd  the  day; 
The  sky  receded  further  into  space, 
The  stars  came  lower  down  to  meet  the  eye, 
Till  the  whole  hemisphere,  alive  with  light, 
Twinkled  from  east  to  west  by  one  consent 
The  constellations  round  the  arctic  pole. 
That  never  set  to  us,  here  scarcely  rose, 
But  in  their  stead,  Orion  through  the  north 
Pursued  the  Pleiads ;  Sirius,  w  ith  his  keen, 
Quick  scintillations,  in  the  zenith  reign'd. 
The  south  unveil'd  ils  glories; — there,  the  WVlf. 
With  eyes  of  lightning,  watch'd  the  Centaur's  ^;  car; 
Through  the  clear  hyaline,  the  Ship  of  Heaven 
Came  sailing  from  eternity;  the  Dove, 
On  silver  pinions,  wing'd  her  peaceful  way ; 
There,  at  the  footstool  of  Jehovah's  throne, 
The  Altar,  kindled  from  His  presence,  blazed ; 
There,  too,  all  else  excelling,  meekly  shone 
The  Cross,  the  symbol  of  redeeming  love  : 
The  Heavens  declared  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
The  firmament  display 'd  his  handy-work. 


With  scarce  inferior  lustre  gleam'd  the  sea. 
Whose  waves  were  spangled  with  phosphoric  fire. 
As  thoush  the  lightnings  there  had  spent  their  >lia' 
And  left  the  fragments  glittering  on  the  field. 

Next  morn,  in  mocker,'  of  a  storm,  the  breeze 
And  waters  skirmished  ;  bubble-armies  fought 
Millions  of  battles  on  the  crested  surges. 
And  where  ihey  fell,  all  cover'd  with  their  glory, 
Traced,  in  white  foam  on  the  cerulean  main, 
Paths,  like  the  milkv-wav  among  the  stars. 


Its 

i 


Charm'd  with  the  spectacle,  yet  deeply  touch'd 
With  a  forlorn  and  not  untender  feeling— 
"  VVhv,"  said  my  thouirhts  within  rne,  "  why  this  waste 
Of  loveliness  and  grandeur  unenjoy'd  ? 
Is  there  no  life  throughout  this  fair  existence  ? 
Sky,  sun,  and  sea,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  clouds. 
Wind,  lightning,  thunder,  are  but  ministers ; 
Thev  know  not  what  they  are,  nor  what  they  do : 
O  for  the  beings  for  whom  these  were  made  I " 

Light  as  a  flake  of  foam  upon  the  wind, 
Keel  upward  from  the  deep  emerged  a  shell. 
Shaped  like  the  moon  ere  half  her  horn  is  fill'd, 
Fraught  with  voung  life,  it  righted  as  it  rose, 

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THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


91 


id  moved  at  will  along  the  yielding  water, 
le  native  pilot  of  this  little  bark 

out  a  tier  of  oars  on  either  side, 
reatl  to  the  wafting  breeze  a  two-fold  sail, 
id  mounted  up  and  glided  down  the  billow 
happy  freedom,  pleased  to  feel  the  air, 
id  wander  in  the  luxury  of  light, 
orth  all  the  dead  creation,  in  that  hour, 
mc  appear'd  this  lonely  Nautilus, 
r  fellow-being,  like  myself  alive. 
tranced  in  contemplation  vague  yet  sweet, 
vatch'd  its  vagrant  course  and  rippling  wake, 
\  I  forgot  the  sun  amidst  the  heavens. 


t  closed,  sunk,  dwindled  to  a  point,  then  nothing  ; 
\i\\e  the  last  bubble  crown'd  the  dimpling  eddy, 
rough  which  mine  eye  still  giddily  pursued  it, 
loyous  creature  vaulted  through  the  air, — 
>e  aspiring  fish  that  fain  would  be  a  bird, 
long  light  wings,  that  flung  a  diamond  shower 

dew-drops  round  its  evanescent  form,   ' 
ang  into  light,  and  instantly  descended. 
5  I  could  greet  the  stranger  as  a  friend, 
mourn  his  quick  departure, — on  the  surge, 
hoal  of  Dolphins,  tumbling  in  wild  glee, 
)w'd  with  such  orient  tints,  they  might  have  been 

rainbow's  offspring,  when  it  met  the  ocean 
that  resplendent  vision  I  had  seen. 
lile  yet  in  ecstacy  I  hung  o'er  these, 
th  every  motion  pouring  out  fresh  beauties, 
though  the  conscious  colors  came  and  went 
pleasure,  glorying  in  their  subtle  changes, — 
:)rmous  o'er  the  flood,  Leviathan  ' 

)k'd  forth,  and  from  his  roaring  nostrils  sent 
'O  fountains  to  the  sky,  then  plunged  amain 

eadlong  pastime  through  the  closing  gulf 

Phese  were  but  preludes  to  the  revelry 
It  reigii'd  at  sun-set :  then  the  deep  let  loose 
blithe  adventurers  to  sport  at  large, 
kindly  instinct  taught  them  ;  buoyant  shells, 
stormless  voyages,  in  fleets  or  single, 
lerried  their  tiny  mariners  ;  aloof, 
wing-like  fins,  in  lx)w-and-arrow  figures, 
5  flying  fishes  darted  to  and  fro ; 
lile  spouting  Whales  projected  watery  columns, 
at  turn'd  to  arches  at  their  height,  and  seem'd 
B  skeletons  of  crystal  palaces. 
It  on  the  blue  expanse,  then  perishing, 
il  as  the  element  which  they  were  made  of: 
phins,  in  gambols,  lent  the  lucid  brine 
es  richer  than  the  canopy  of  eve. 
It  overhung  the  scene  with  gorgeous  clouds, 
aying  into  gloom  more  beautiful 
Im  tlie  sun's  golden  liveries  which  they  lost  : 
II  light  that  hides,  and  darkness  that  reveals 
le  stars, — exchanging  guard,  like  sentinels 
f  day  and  night, — transfbrm'd  the  face  of  nature : 
i'Dve  was  wakefulness,  silence  around, 
I  leath,  repose, — repose  that  reach'd  even  me. 
Lver,  v.ill,  sensation,  memory,  fail'd  in  turn; 
A  very  essence  seern'd  to  pass  away, 
I;e  a  thin  cloud  that  melts  across  the  moon, 
I;t  in  the  blue  immensity  of  heaven. 


CANTO  IL 


Life's  intermitting  pulse  again  went  on : 
I  woke  amidst  the  beauty  of  a  morn. 
That  shone  as  bright  within  me  as  around. 
The  presence-chamber  of  the  soul  was  full 
Of  flitting  images  and  rapturous  thoughts  ; 
For  eye  and  mind  were  opeu'd  to  explore 
The  secrets  of  the  abyss  erewhile  conceal'd. 
The  floor  of  ocean,  never  trod  by  man. 
Was  visible  to  me  as  heaven's  round  roof, 
Which  man  hath  never  touch'd ;  the  multitude 
Of  living  things,  in  that  new  hemisphere, 
Gleam'd  out  of  darkness,  like  the  stars  at  midnight, 
When  moon  nor  clouds,  with  light  or  shade,  obscure 

them. 
For,  as  in  hollows  of  the  tide-worn  reef. 
Left  at  low  water  glistening  in  the  sun. 
Pellucid  pools,  and  rocks  in  miniature, 
With  their  small  fry  of  fishes,  crusted  shells. 
Rich  mosses,  tree-like  sea-weed,  sparkling  pebbles, 
Enchant  the  eye,  and  tempt  the  eager  hand 
To  violate  the  fairy  paradise, 
— So  to  my  view  the  deep  disclosed  its  wonders. 

In  the  free  element  beneath  me  swam, 
Flounder'd,  and  dived,  in  play,  in  chase,  in  battle. 
Fishes  of  every  color,  form,  and  kind, 
(Strange  forms,  resplendent  colors,  kinds  unnumber'd). 
Which  language  cannot  paint,  and  mariner 
Hath  never  seen ;  from  dread  Leviathan 
To  insect  millions  peopling  every  wave  ; 
And  nameless  tribes,  half-plant,  half-anirnal. 
Rooted  and  slumbering  through  a  dream  of  life. 
The  livelier  inmates  to  the  surface  sprang. 
To  taste  the  freshness  of  heaven's  breath,  and  feel 
That  light  is  pleasant,  and  the  sun-beam  warm. 
Most  in  the  middle  region  sought  their  prey. 
Safety,  or  pastime  ;  solitary  some. 
And  some  in  pairs  aflfectionately  join'd  ; 
Others  in  shoals  immense,  like  floating  islands. 
Led  by  mysterious  instinct  through  that  waste 
And  trackless  region,  though  on  every  side 
Assaulted  by  voracious  enemies, 
— Whales,  sharks,  and  monsters,  arm'd  in  front  or  jaw. 
With  swords,  saws,  spiral  horns,  or  hooked  fangs. 
While  ravening  Death  of  slaughter  ne'er  grew  weary 
Life  multiplied  the  immortal  meal  as  fast. 
War,  reckless,  universal  war,  prevail'd  ,- 
All  were  devourers,  all  in  turn  devour'd  ; 
Yet  every  unit  in  the  uncounted  sum 
Of  victims  had  its  share  of  bliss,  its  pang. 
And  but  a  pang,  of  dissolution;  each 
Was  happy  till  its  moment  came,  and  then 
Its  first,  last  suflfering,  unforeseen,  unfear'd, 
Closed,  with  one  struggle,  pain  and  life  for  ever 
So,  He  ordain'd,  whose  way  is  in  the  sea. 
His  path  amidst  great  waters,  and  his  steps 
Unknown  ; — whose  judgments  are  a  mighty  deej> 
Where  plummet  of  Archanoel's  intellect 
Could  never  yet  find  soundings,  but  from  age 
To  age  let  down,  drawn  up,  tlien  thrown  again. 
With  lengthen'd  line  and  added  weight,  still  failfi 
And  still  the  cry  in  Heaven  is,  "  O,  the  depth!" 

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92 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus,  while  bevvilder'd  wilh  delight  I  gazed 
On  life  in  every  shape  it  here  assumed, 
Congenial  feeling  made  me  follow  it, 
And  try  to  be  whatever  1  beheld  : 
By  mental  transmigration  thus  I  pass'd 
Through  many  a  body,  and  in  each  assay'd 
New  instincts,  powers,  enjoyments,  death  itself; 
Till,  weary  with  the  fanciful  pursuit, 
I  started  from  that  idle  reverie. 
Then  grew  my  heart  more  desolate  than  ever ; 
Here  had  I  found  the  beings  which  I  sought, 
— Beings  for  whom  the  universe  was  made. 
Yet  none  of  kindred  with  myself     In  vain 
I  strove  to  waken  sympathy  in  breasts 
Cold  as  the  element  in  which  they  moved. 
And  inaccessible  to  fellowship 
With  me,  as  sun  and  stars,  as  winds  and  vapors : 
Sense  had  tliey,  but  no  more  ;  mind  was  not  there. 
They  roara'd,  they  fed,  they  slept;  they  died,  and  left 
Race  after  race,  to  roam,  feed,  sleep,  then  die, 
And  leave  their  like  through  endless  generation ; 
— Incessant  change  of  actors,  none  of  scene, 
Throuffh  all  that  boundless  theatre  of  strife ! 
Shrinking  into  myself  again,  I  cried. 
In  bitter  disappointment, — "  Is  this  all?" 

I  sent  a  glance  at  random  from  the  cloud. 
In  which  I  then  lay  floating  through  mid-heaven, 
To  ocean's  innermost  recess  ; — when  lo  I 
Another  seal  of  Nature's  book  was  open'd, 
Wtiich  held  transported  thought  so  deep  entranced. 
Thai  Time,  though  borne  through  mightiest  revolu- 
tions, 
Seem'd,  like  the  earth  in  motion,  to  stand  still. 
The  works  of  ages  grew  beneath  mine  eye ; 
As  rapid  intellect  calls  up  events. 
Combines,  compresses,  moulds  them,  with  such  power, 
Thai,  in  a  little  page  of  memory. 
An  empire's  annals  lie, — a  nation's  fortunes 
Pass  in  review,  as  motes  through  sunbeams  pass. 
Glistening  and  vanishing  in  quick  succession, 
Yet  each  distinct  as  though  there  were  but  one ; 
— So  thrice  a  thousand  years,  with  all  their  issues, 
Hurried  before  me,  through  a  gleam  of  Time, 
Between  the  clouds  of  two  eternities, — 
That  w  hence  they  came,  and  that  to  which  they  tended. 

Immeasurable  continents  beneath 
Tlie  expanse  of  animated  waters  lay, 
Ao;  strown, — as  I  have  smre  discern'd  the  tracks 
Of  voyagers, — with  shipwrecks  and  their  spoils. 
The  wealth  of  merchants,  the  artillery 
Of  war,  the  chains  of  captives,  and  the  gems. 
That  glovv'd  upon  the  brow  of  beauty ;  crowns 
Of  monarch?,  swords  of  heroes,  anchors  lost, 
That  never  had  let  go  their  hold  in  storms ; 
Helms,  sunk  in  port,  that  steer'd  adventurous  barks 
Round  the  wide  world ;  bones  of  dead  men,  that  made 
.\  hidden  Golgotha  where  they  had  fallen, 
Unseen,  unsepulchreu,  but  not  unwept 
By  lover,  friend,  relation,  far  away. 
Long  waiting  their  return  to  home  and  countrj', 
And  going  down  into  their  fathers'  graves 
With  their  grey  hairs  or  youthful  locks  in  sorrow, 
To  meet  no  more  till  sqas  give  up  their  dead  : 
Some  too — ay  thousands — whom  none  living  mourn'd, 
None  miss'd — waifs  in  the  universe,  the  last 
Lorn  links  of  kindred  chains  for  ever  sunder 'd. 


Not  such  the  spectacle  I  now  survey'd  ; 
No  broken  hearts  lay  here ;  no  a(;hing  heads, 
For  w  hose  vast  schemes  the  world  was  once  too  sm 
And  life  too  short,  in  Death's  dark  lap  found  rest 
Beneath  the  unresting  wave  : — but  skeletons 
Of  Whales  and  Krakens  here  and  there  were  scatte 
The  prey  when  dead  of  tribes,  their  i)rey  when  livi 
And,  seen  by  glimpses,  but  awakening  thoughts 
Too  .sad  for  utterance, — reli'  s  huge  and  strange 
Of  the  old  world  that  perish'd  by  the  flood. 
Kept  under  chains  of  darkness  till  the  judgment 
— Save  these,  lay  oceans  bed,  as  from  the  hand 
Of  its  Creator,  hollovv'd  and  prepared 
For  his  unfathomable  counsels  there. 
To  work  slow  miracles  of  power  divine, 
From  century  to  century, — nor  less 
Incomprehensible  than  heaven  and  earth 
Form'd  in  six  days  by  His  commanding  word. 
With  God  a  thousand  years  are  as  one  day ; 
He  in  one  day  can  sum  a  thousand  years  : 
All  acts  with  Him  are  equal ;  for  no  more 
It  costs  Omnipotence  to  build  a  world, 
And  set  a  sun  amidst  the  firmament. 
Than  mould  a  dew-drop,  and  light  up  its  gem. 

This  was  the  landscape  stretch'd  beneath  the  fl 
— Rocks,  branching  out  hke  chains  of  Alphie  m; 

tains ; 
Gulfs  intervening,  sandy  wildernesses. 
Forests  of  growth  enormous,  caverns,  shoals ; 
Fouiuains  upspringing,  hot  and  cold,  and  fresh 
And  bitter,  as  on  land ;  volcanic  fires 
Fiercely  out-flashing  from  earth's  central  heart. 
Nor  soon  extinguish'd  by  the  rush  of  waters 
Down  the  rent  crater  to  the  vuiknown  abyss 
Of  ISature's  laboratory,  where  she  hides 
Her  deeds  from  every  eye  except  her  Maker's: 
— Such  were  the  scenes  which  ocean  open'd  to 
Mysterious  regions,  the  recluse  abode 
Of  unapfiroachable  inhabitants. 
That  dwelt  in  everlasting  darkness  there. 
Unheard  by  them  the  roaring  of  the  wind, 
The  elf^tic  motion  of  the  wave  unfelt ; 
Still  life  was  theirs,  well-pleasing  to  themselveH 
Nor  yet  unuseful,  as  my  song  shall  show. 


Here,  on  a  stony  eminence,  that  stood, 
Girt  with  inferior  ridges,  at  the  point. 
Where  light  and  darkness  meet  in  spectral  glo<! 
Midway  between  the  height  and  depth  of  oce 
I  mark'd  a  whirlpool  in  perpetual  play, 
As  though  the  mountain  were  itself  alive, 
And  catching  prey  on  ever}'  side,  with  feelers 
Countless  as  sunbeams,  slight  as  gossamer ; 
Ere  long  transfigured,  each  fine  film  became 
An  independent  creature,  self-employ 'd. 
Yet  but  an  asrent  in  one  common  work. 
The  sum  of  all  their  individual  labors. 
Shapeless  they  seem'd,  but  endless  shapes  assi5  H 
Elongated  like  worms,  they  writhed  and  shrun 
Their  tortuous  bodies  to  grotesque  dimensions; 
Compress'd  like  wedges,  radiated  like  stars. 
Branching  like  sea-weed,  whirl'd  in  dazzling  r  s 
Subtle  and  variable  as  flickering  flames. 
Sight  could  not  trace  their  evanescent  changes 
Nor  comprehend  their  motions,  till  minute 

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THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


93 


And  curious  observation  caught  the  clew 
To  this  Uve  labyrinth, — where  every  one, 
By  instinct  taught,  perform'd  its  little  task ; 

To  build  its  dwelling  and  its  sepulchre. 

From  its  own  essence  exquisitely  modell'd ; 
There  breed,  and  die,  and  leave  a  progeny. 
Still  multiplied  beyond  the  reach  of  numbers. 
To  frame  new  cells  and  tombs ;  then  breed  and  die 
As  all  their  ancestors  had  done, — and  rest, 
Hermetically  seal'd,  each  in  its  shrine, 
'■  A  statue  in  this  temple  of  oblivion ! 
1  Millions  of  millions  thus,  from  age  to  age, 
iVith  simplest  skill,  and  toil  unweariable, 
N'o  moment  and  no  movement  unimproved. 
Laid  lino  on  line,  on  terrace  terrace  spread, 
To  swell  the  heightening,  brightening  gradual  mound, 
'3y  marvellous  structure  climbing  towards  the  day. 
£ach  wrought  alone,  yet  all  together,  wrought, 
Jnconscious,  not  unworthy,  instruments, 
3y  which  a  hand  invisible  was  rearing 
A  new  creation  in  the  secret  deep. 
Oraniix)tence  wrought  in  them,  with  them,  by  them; 
lience  what  Omnipotence  alone  could  do 
j.Vorms  did.     I  saw  the  living  pile  ascend, 
|rhe  mausoleum  of  its  arcliitects, 
j  |>till  dying  upwards  as  their  labors  closed : 
|>lime  the  material,  but  the  slime  was  turn'd 
To  adamant,  by  their  petrific  touch ; 
I'rail  uere  their  frames,  ephemeral  their  lives, 
Their  masonry  imperishable.    All 
ife's  needful  functions,  food,  exertion,  rest, 
W  nice  econoni}'^  of  Providence 
Vere  overruled  to  carry  on  the  process, 
Vhich  out  of  water  brought  forth  solid  rock. 

Atom  by  atom  thus  the  burthen  grew, 
l\en  like  an  infant  in  the  womb,  till  Time 
)eliver'd  ocean  of  that  monstrous  birth, 
—A  coral  island,  stretching  east  and  west, 
a  God's  own  language  to  its  parent  saying. 
Thus  far,  nor  farther,  shalt  thou  go ;  and  here 
ihall  thy  proud  waves  be  stay'd:" — A  point  at  first 

tpeer'd  above  those  waves ;  a  point  so  small, 
just  perceived  it,  fix'd  where  all  was  floating  ; 
nd  when  a  bubble  cross'd  it,  the  blue  film 
Expanded  like  a  sky  above  the  speck  -, 
hat  speck  became  a  hand-breadth;  day  and  night 
t  spread,  accumulated,  and  ere  long 
'resented  to  my  view  a  dazzling  plain, 
Vriite  as  the  m(X)n  amid  the  sapphire  sea; 
•  _  Jare  at  low  water,  and  as  still  as  death, 

jt  w'.ien  the  tide  came  gurgling  o'er  the  surface, 
r  was  like  a  resurrection  of  the  dead  : 
rom  graves  innumerable,  punctures  fine 

1  the  close  coral,  capillary  swarms 
)f  reptiles,  horrent  as  Medusa's  snakes, 
^over'd  the  bald-pate  reef;  then  all  was  life, 

nd  indefatigable  industry ; 

he  artisans  were  twisting  to  and  fro, 
n  idle-seeming  convolutions  ;  yet 
""hey  never  vanish'd  with  the  ebbing  surge, 

ill  pellicle  on  pellicle,  and  layer 
>n  layer,  was  added  to  the  growing  mass. 
Ire  long  the  reef  o'ertopt  the  spring-flood's  height, 
ind  mock'd  the  billows  when  they  leapt  upon  it, 
Inable  to  maintain  their  slippery  hold, 


And  falling  down  in  foam-wreaths  round  its  verge. 
Steep  were  the  flanks,  with  precipices  sharp, 
Descending  to  their  base  in  ocean-gloom. 
Chasms  few,  and  narrow,  and  irregular, 
Form'd  harbors,  safe  at  once  and  perilous, — 
Safe  for  defence,  but  perilous  to  enter. 
A  sea-lake  shone  amidst  the  fossil  isle. 
Reflecting  in  a  ring  its  clitTs  and  caverns. 
With  heaven  itself  seen  like  a  lake  below. 

Compared  with  this  amazing  edifice. 
Raised  by  the  weakest  creatures  in  existence, 
What  are  the  works  of  intellectual  man  ? 
Towers,  temples,  palaces,  and  sepulchres  ; 
Ideal  images  in  sculptured  forms, 
Thoughts  hewn  in  columns,  or  in  domes  expanded, 
Fancies  through  every  maze  of  beauty  shown; 
Pride,  gratitude,  affection  turn'd  to  marble. 
In  honor  of  the  living  or  the  dead  ; 
What  are  they  ? — fine-wrought  miniatures  of  art, 
Too  exquisite  to  bear  the  weight  of  dew, 
Which  every  morn  lets  fiill  in  pearls  upon  them. 
Till  all  their  pomp  sinks  down  in  mouldering  relics 
Yet  in  their  ruin  loveUer  than  their  prime ! 
— Dust  in  the  balance,  atoms  in  the  gale, 
Compared  with  these  achievements  in  the  deep. 
Were  all  the  monuments  of  olden  time. 
In  days  when  there  were  giants  on  the  earth. 
— Babel's  stupendous  folly,  though  it  aim'd 
To  scale  heaven's  battlements,  was  but  a  toy. 
The  plaything  of  the  world  in  infancy : — 
The  ramparts,  towers,  and  gates  of  Babylon, 
Built  for  eternity, — though,  where  they  stood, 
Ruin  itself  stands  still  lor  lack  of  work, 
And  Desolation  keeps  unbroken  sabbath ; — 
Great  Babylon,  in  its  full  moon  of  empire. 
Even  when  its  "  head  of  gold"  was  smitten  off 
And  from  a  monarch  changed  into  a  brute ; — 
Great  Babylon  was  like  a  wreath  of  sand. 
Left  by  one  tide,  and  cancelfd  by  the  next : — 
Egypt's  dread  wonders,  still  defying  Time, 
Where  cities  have  been  crumbled  into- sand, 
Scatter'd  by  winds  beyond  the  Libyan  desert, 
Or  melted  down  into  the  mud  of  JSile, 
And  cast  in  tillage  o'er  the  corn-sown  fields. 
Where  JNIemphis  flourish'd,  and  the  Pharaohs  reign'd;- 
Egypt's  grey  piles  of  hieroglyphic  grandeur, 
That  have  survived  the  language  which  they  speak 
Preserving  its  dead  emblems  to  the  eye. 
Yet  hiding  from  the  mind  what  these  reveal ; 
— Her  pyramids  would  be  mere  pinnacles. 
Her  giant  statues,  wrought  from  rocks  of  granite 
But  puny  ornaments  for  such  a  pile 
As  this  stupendous  mound  of  catacombs, 
Fill'd  with  dry  mummies  of  the  builder-worms 

Thus  far,  with  undiverted  thought,  and  eye 
Intensely  fix'd  on  ocean's  concave  mirror, 
I  watch'd  the  process  to  its  finishing  stroke : 
Then  starting  suddenly,  as  from  a  trance. 
Once  more  to  look  upon  the  blessed  sun. 
And  breathe  the  gladdening  influence  of  the  wind 
Darkness  fell  on  me ;  giddily  my  brain 
Whirl'd  like  a  torch  of  fire  that  seems  a  circle 
And  soon  to  me  the  universe  was  nothing. 

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MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CANTO  III. 


Nine  times  the  age  of  man  that  coral  reef 
Had  bleach'd  beneath  the  torrid  noon,  and  borne 
The  thunder  of  a  thousand  hurricanes, 
Raised  by  the  jealous  ocean,  to  repel 
That  strange  encroachment  on  his  old  domain. 
His  rage  was  impotent ;  his  wrath  fulfill'd 
The  counsels  of  eternal  Providence, 
And  'siablish'd  what  he  strove  to  overturn  : 
For  every  tempest  threw  fresh  wrecks  upon  it ; 
Sand  from  the  shoals,  exuviae  from  the  deep, 
Fragments  of  shells,  dead  sloughs,  sea-monsters'  bones, 
Whales  stranded  in  the  shallows,  hideous  weeds 
Hurl'd  out  of  darkness  by  the  up-rooting  surges; 
These,  with  unutterable  relics  more, 
Heap'd  the  rough  surface,  till  the  various  mass, 
By  Nature's  chemistry  combined  and  purged. 
Had  buried  the  bare  rock  in  crumbling  mould, 
Not  unproductive,  but  from  time  to  time 
Impregnated  with  seeds  of  plants,  and  rife 
With  embryo  animals,  or  torpid  fonns 
Of  reptiles,  shrouded  in  the  clefts  of  trees. 
From  distant  lands,  with  branches,  foliage,  fruit, 
Pluck'd  up  and  wafted  hither  by  the  flood. 
Death's  spoils,  and  life's  hid  treasures,  thus  enrich'd 
And  colonized  the  soil ;  no  particle 
Of  meanest  substance  but  in  course  was  turn'd 
To  solid  use  or  noble  ornament. 
All  seasons  were  propitious ;  everj'  wind. 
From  the  hot  Siroc  to  the  wet  Monsoon, 
Temper'd  the  crude  materials ;  while  heaven's  dew. 
Fell  on  the  sterile  wilderness  as  sweetly 
As  though  it  were  a  garden  of  the  Lord ; 
Nor  fell  in  vain ;  each  drop  had  its  commission, 
And  did  its  duty,  known  to  Him  who  sent  it. 

Such  time  had  past,  such  changes  had  transfigured 
The  aspect  of  that  solitary  isle. 
When  I  again  in  spirit,  as  before. 
Assumed  mute  watch  above  it.    Slender  blades 
Of  grass  were  shooting  through  the  dark-brown  earth. 
Like  rays  of  light,  transparent  in  the  sun, 
Or  after  showers  with  liquid  gems  illumined; 
fountains  through  fdtering  sluices  sallied  forth. 
And  led  fertility  where'er  they  turn'd  ; 
Green  herbage  graced  their  banks,  resplendent  flowers 
Unlock'd  their  treasures,  and  let  flow  their  fragrance. 
Then  insect  legions,  prank'd  with  gaudiest  hues. 
Pearl,  gold,  and  purple,  swarm'd  into  existence  ; 
Minute  and  marvellous  creations  these ! 
Infinite  multitudes  on  every  leaf. 
In  every  drop,  by  me  discern'd  at  pleasure, 
Were  yet  too  fine  for  unenlighten'd  eye, 
— Like  stars,  whose  beams  have  never  reach'd  our 

world. 
Though  science  meets  them  midway  in  the  heaven 
With  prying  optics,  weighs  them  in  her  scale. 
Measures  their  orbs,  and  calculates  their  courses : — 
Some  barely  visible,  some  proudly  shone. 
Like  living  jewels;  some  grotesque,  uncouth, 
And  hideous, — giants  of  a  race  of  pigmies ; 
These  burrow'd  in  the  ground,  and  fed  on  garbage, 
Those  lived  deliciously  on  honey-dews. 
And  dwelt  in  palaces  of  blossom'd  bells  ; 
Millions  on  millions,  wing'd,  and  plumed  in  front, 
And  arra'd  with  stings  for  vengeance  or  assault, 


Fill'd  the  dim  atmosphere  with  hum  and  hurry; 

Children  of  light,  and  air,  and  fire,  they  seem'd. 

Their  lives  all  ecstacy  and  quick  cross  motion. 

Thus  throve  this  embryo  universe,  where  all 

That  was  to  be  was  unbegun,  or  now 

Beginning;  every  day,  hour,  instant,  brought 

Its  novelty,  though  how  or  whence  I  knew  not; 

Less  than  omniscience  could  not  comprehend 

The  causes  of  effects  that  seemJ  spontaneous. 

And  sprang  in  infinite  succession,  link'd 

With  kindred  issues  infinite  as  they. 

For  which  almighty  skill  had  laid  the  train 

Even  in  the  elements  of  chaos, — whence 

The  unravelling  clew  not  for  a  moment  lost 

Hold  of  the  silent  hand  that  drew  it  out. 

Thus  He  who  makes  and  peoples  worlds  still  works 

In  secrecy,  behind  a  veil  of  light  ; 

Yet  through  that  hiding  of  his  power,  such  glimpses 

Of  glory  break  as  strike  presumption  blind. 

But  humble  and  exalt  the  humbled  soul, 

Whose  faith  the  things  invisible  discerns. 

And  God  informing,  guiding,  ruling  all : — 

He  speaks,  't  is  done ;  commands,  and  it  stands  fast 

He  calls  an  island  from  the  deep, — it  comes ; 

Ordains  it  culture, — soil  and  seed  are  there ; 

Appoints  inhabitants, — l"rom  climes  unknown, 

By  undiscoverable  paths,  they  flock 

Thither; — like  passage-birds  to  us  in  spring; 

They  were  not  yesterday, — and.  lo !  to-day 

They  are, — but  what  keen  eye  beheld  them  coming? 

Here  was  the  infancy  of  life,  the  age 
Of  gold  in  that  green  isle,  itself  new-bom, 
And  all  upon  it  in  the  prime  of  being. 
Love,  hope,  and  promise  ;  't  was  in  miniature 
A  world  unsoil'd  by  sin ;  a  Paradise 
Where  Death  had  not  yet  cnterd ;  Bliss  had  newly 
Alighted,  and  shut  close  his  rainbow  wings, 
To  rest  at  ease,  nor  dread  intruding  ill. 
Plants  of  superior  growth  now  sprang  apace, 
With  moon-like  blossoms  crown'd,  or  starry  glories 
Light  flexile  shrubs  among  the  green-wood  play'd 
Fantastic    frealis, — they    crept,   they    climb'd,   they 

budded, 
And  hung  their  flowers  and  berries  in  the  sun  ; 
As  the  breeze  taught,  they  danced,  they  sung,  thej 

twined 
Their  sprays  in  bowers,  or  spread  the  ground  witl: 

network. 
Through  thy  slow  lapse  of  undivided  time, 
Silently  rising  from  their  buried  germs. 
Trees  lifted  to  the  skies  their  stately  heads. 
Tufted  with  verdure,  like  depending  plumage, 
O'er  stems  unknotted,  waving  to  the  wind : 
Of  these  in  graceful  form,  and  simple  beauty, 
The  fruilfid  cocoa  and  the  fragrant  palm 
Excell'd  the  wilding  daughters  of  the  wood, 
That  stretch'd  unwieldy  their  enormous  arms. 
Clad  with  luxuriant  foliage,  from  the  trunk, 
Like  the  old  eagle,  feather'd  to  the  heel ; 
While  every  fibre,  from  the  lowest  root 
To  the  last  leaf  upon  the  topmost  twig, 
Was  held  by  common  sympathy,  diflJ'using 
Through  all  the  complex  frame  unconscious  life 
Such  was  the  locust  with  his  hydra  boughs, 
A  hundred  heads  on  one  stupendous  trunk ; 
And  such  the  mangrove,  which,  at  full-moon  flood, 
Appear'd  itself  a  wood  upon  the  waters, 

278 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


95 


5at  when  the  tide  left  bare  its  upright  roots, 

|\.  wood  on  piles  suspended  in  the  air ; 

)uch  too  the  Indian  tig,  that  built  itself 

nto  a  sylvan  temple  arch'd  aloof 

Vith  airy  aisles  and  living  colonnades, 

Vhere  nations  might  have  Avorshipp'd  God  in  peace. 

'lom  year  to  year  their  fruits  ungather'd  fell ; 

i'ot  lost,  but  quickening  where  they  lay,  they  struck 

toot  downward,  and  brake  forth  on  every  hand, 

;'ill  the  strong  saplings,  rank  and  file,  stood  up, 

mighty  army,  which  o'erran  the  isle, 
uod  changed  the  wilderness  into  a  forest. 

All  this  appear'd  aceomplish'd  in  the  space 
tetween  the  morning  and  the  evening  star: 
o,  in  his  third  day's  work,  Jehovah  spake, 
nd  Earth,  an  infant,  naked  as  she  came 
ut  of  the  womb  of  Chaos,  straight  put  on 
er  beautiful  attire,  and  deck'd  her  robe 
If  verdure  with  ten  thousand  glorious  flowers, 
Ixhaling  incense  ;  crovvn'd  her  mountain-heads 
Vith  cedars,  train'd  her  \-ines  around  their  girdles, 
nd  pour'd  spontaneous  harvests  at  their  feet. 

Nor  were  those  woods  without  inhabitants 
esides  the  ephemera  of  earth  and  air : 
-Where  glid  the  sun-beams  through  the  latticed 

boughs, 
nd  fell  like  dew-drops  on  the  spangled  ground, 
'o  light  the  diamond-beetle  on  his  way  ; 
-Where  cheerful  openings  let  the  sky  look  down 
to  the  very  heart  of  solitude, 
1  little  garden-plots  of  social  flowers, 
"hat  crowded  from  the  shades  to  peep  at  daylight ; 

■  where  impermeable  foliage  made 
lidnight  at  noon,  and  chill,  damp  horror  reign'd 
er  dead,  fall'n  leaves  and  slimy  funguses  ; 
-Reptiles  were  quicken'd  into  various  birth. 
oalhsome,  unsightly,  swoln  to  obscene  bulk, 
urk'd  the  dark  toad  beneath  the  infected  turf; 
he  slow-worm  crawl'd,  the  light  chameleon  climb'd, 
nd  changed  his  color  as  his  place  he  changed ; 
he  nimble  lizard  ran  from  bough  to  bough, 
lancing  through  light,  in  shadow  disappearing ; 
'he  scorpion,  many-eyed,  with  sting  of  fire, 
red  there, — the  legion-fiend  of  creeping  things ; 
'erribly  beautiful,  the  serpent  lay, 
breathed  like  a  coronet  of  gold  and  jewels, 
~^t  for  a  tyrant's  brow ;  anon  he  flew 
traight  as  an  arrow  shot  from  his  own  rings, 
nd  struck  his  victim,  shrieking  ere  it  went 
own  his  strain'd  throat,  that  open  sepulchre. 

Amphibious  monsters  haunted  the  lagoon  ; 
he  hippopotamus,  amidst  the  flood, 
lexile  and  active  as  the  smallest  swimmer; 
ut  CD  the  bank,  ill-balanced  and  infirm, 
e  grazed  the  herbage,  with  huge  head  declined, 
r  lean'd  to  rest  against  some  ancient  tree, 
he  crocodile,  the  dragon  of  the  waters, 
1  iron  panoply,  fell  as  the  plague, 
nd  merciless  as  famine,  cranch'd  his  prey, 
^^hile  from  his  jaws,  with  dreadful  fangs  all  serried, 
he  life-blood  dyed  the  waves  with  deadly  streams, 
'he  seal  and  the  sea-lion,  from  the  ?ulf 
jame  forth,  and  couching  with  their  little  ones, 
ilept  on  the  shelving  rocks  that  girt  the  shore. 


Securing  prompt  retreat  from  sudden  danger : 
The  pregnant  turtle,  stealing  out  at  eve. 
With  anxious  eye  and  trembling  heart  explored 
The  loneliest  coves,  and  in  the  loose  warm  sand 
Deposited  her  eggs,  which  the  sun  hatch'd  : 
Hence  the  young  brood,  that  never  knew  a  parent, 
Unburrow'd  and  by  instinct  sought  the  sea ; 
Nature  hei-self  with  her  own  gentle  hand, 
Dropping  them  one  by  one  into  the  flood, 
And  laughing  to  behold  their  antic  joy, 
When  launch'd  in  their  maternal  element. 

The  vision  of  that  brooding  world  went  on  • 
Millions  of  beings  yet  more  admirable 
Than  all  that  went  before  them  now  appear'd  ; 
Flocking  from  every  ponit  of  heaven,  and  filling 
Eye,  ear,  and  mind  with  objects,  sounds,  emotions 
Akin  to  livelier  sympathy  and  love 
Than  reptiles,  fishes,  insects,  could  inspire. 
— Birds,  the  free  tenants  of  land,  air,  and  ocean. 
Their  forms  all  symmetry,  their  motions  grace ; 
In  plumage,  dehcate  and  beautiful, 
Thick  without  burthen,  close  as  fishes'  scales. 
Or  loose  as  full-blo\\Ti  poppies  to  the  breeze : 
With  wings  that  might  have  had  a  soul  witmn  them, 
They  bore  their  owners  by  such  sweet  enchantment, 
— Birds,  small  and  great,  of  endless  shapes  and  colors, 
Here  flew  and  perch'd,  there  swam  and  dived  at  plea- 
sure ; 
Watchful  and  agile,  uttering  voices  wild 
And  harsh,  yet  in  accordance  with  the  waves 
Upon  the  beach,  the  winds  in  caverns  moaning, 
Or  winds  and  waves  abroad  upon  the  water. 
Some  sought  their  food  among  the  finny  shoals, 
Swift  darting  from  the  clouds,  emerging  soon 
With  siender  captives  glittering  in  their  beaks; 
These  in  recesses  of  steep  crags  constructed 
Their  eyries  inaccessible,  and  train'd 
Their  hardy  broods  to  forage  in  all  weathers : 
Others,  more  gorgeously  apparell'd,  dwelt 
Among  the  woods,  on  Nature's  dainties  feeding. 
Herbs,  seeds,  and  roots ;  or,  ever  on  the  wing. 
Pursuing  insects  through  the  boundless  air: 
In  hollow  trees  or  thickets  these  conceal'd 
Their  exquisitely  woven  nests  ;  where  lay 
Their  callow  offspring,  quiet  as  the  down 
On  their  own  breasts,  till  from  her  search  the  dam 
With  laden  bill  return'd,  and  shared  the  meal 
Among  her  clamorous  suppliants,  all  agape ; 
Then,  cowering  o'er  them  with  expanded  wings, 
She  felt  how  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  mother. 
Of  these,  a  few,  with  melody  untaught, 
Turn'd  all  the  air  to  music  within  hearing. 
Themselves  unseen  ;  while  bolder  quiristers 
On  loftiest  branches  strain'd  their  clarion-pipes, 
And  made  the  forest  echo  to  their  screams 
Discordant, — yet  there  was  no  discord  there, 
But  temper'd  harmony ;  all  tones  combining. 
In  the  rich  confluence  of  ten  thousand  tongues, 
To  tell  of  joy  and  to  inspire  it.     Who 
Could  hear  such  concert,  and  not  join  in  chorus? 
Not  I ; — sometimes  entranced,  I  seem'd  to  float 
Upon  a  buoyant  sea  of  sounds :  again 
With  curious  ear  I  tried  to  dis-entanclc 
The  maze  of  voices,  and  with  eye  as  nice 
To  sinsjle  out  each  minstrel,  and  pursue 
His  little  song  through  all  its  labyrinth, 

2~9 


96 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Till  my  soul  enter'd  into  him,  and  felt 
Every  vibration  of  his  thrilling  throat, 
Pulse  of  his  heart,  and  flutter  of  his  pinions. 
Often,  as  one  among  the  multitude, 
I  sang  from  very  fullness  of  delight  ; 
Now  like  a  winged  fisher  of  the  sea. 
Now  a  recluse  among  the  woods, — enjoying 
The  bliss  of  all  at  once,  or  each  in  turn. 

In  storm  and  calm,  through  every  change  of  season, 
Long  flourish'd  thus  that  era  of  our  isle  ; 
It  could  not  last  for  ever  :  mark  the  end. 

A  cloud  arose  amid  the  tranquil  heaven, 
Like  a  man's  hand,  but  held  a  hurricane 
Within  its  grasp.     Compress'd  into  a  point. 
The  tempest  struggled  to  break  loose.     No  breath 
Was  stirring,  yet  the  billows  rolFd  aloof. 
And  the  air  moan'd  portentously ;  ere  long 
The  sky  was  hidden,  darkness  to  be  felt 
Confounded  all  things ;  land  and  water  vanish'd, 
And  there  was  silence  through  the  universe ; 
Silence,  that  made  my  soul  as  desolate 
As  the  blind  solitude  around.     Methought 
That  I  had  pass'd  the  bitterness  of  death 
Without  the  agony, — had,  unaware, 
Enter'd  the  unseen  world,  and  in  the  gap 
Between  the  life  that  is  and  that  to  come. 
Awaited  judgment.     Fear  and  trembling  seized 
All  that  was  mortal  or  immortal  in  me : 
A  moment,  and  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Might  open  to  receive,  or  Hell  be  moved 
To  meet  me.     Strength  and  spirit  fail'd  ; 
Eternity  inclosed  me,  and  I  knew  not. 
Knew  not,  even  then,  my  destiny.    To  doubt 
Was  to  despair ; — I  doubted  and  despair'd. 
Then  horrible  delirium  whirl'd  me  down 
To  ocean's  nethermost  recess ;  the  w-aves 
Disparting  freely,  let  me  fall,  and  fall, 
Lower  and  lower,  passive  as  a  stone. 
Yet  rack'd  with  miserable  pangs,  that  gave 
The  sense  of  vain  but  violent  resistance : 
And  still  the  depths  grew  deeper;  still  the  ground 
Receded  from  my  feet  as  I  approach'd  it. 

0  how  I  long'd  to  light  on  rocks,  that  sunk 
Like  quicksands  ere  I  touch'd  them ;  or  to  hide 
In  caverns  ever  open  to  ingulf  me, 

But,  like  the  horizon's  limit,  never  nearer! 

IVIeanwhile  the  irrepressible  tornado 
Burst,  and  involved  the  elements  in  chaos; 
Wind,  rain,  and  liirhtning,  in  one  vast  explosion, 
Rush'd  from  the  firmament  upon  the  deep. 
Heaven's  adamantine  arch  seem'd  rent  asunder, 
And  following  in  a  cataract  of  ruins 
My  swift  descent  through  bottomless  abysses, 
Where  ocean's  bed  had  been  absorb'd  in  nothing 

1  know  no  farther.     When  again  I  saw 
The  Sim,  the  sea,  the  island,  all  was  calm, 
And  all  was  desolation  :  not  a  tree. 

Of  thousands  flourishing  ere  while  so  fair, 

But  now  was  split,  uprooted,  snapt  in  twain. 

Or  hurl'd  with  all  its  honors  to  the  dust. 

Heaps  upon  heaps,  the  forest  giants  lay. 

Even  like  the  slain  in  battle,  fall'n  to  rise 

No  more,  till  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea,  with  all 


Therein,  shall  perish,  as  to  me  they  seem'd 
To  perish  in  that  ruthless  hurricane. 


CANTO  IV. 


Nature  and  Time  were  twns.  Companions  stil 
Tlieir  unretarded,  unreturning  flight 
They  hold  together.     Time,  with  one  sole  aim, 
Looks  ever  onward,  like  the  moon  through  space, 
With  beaming  forehead,  dark  and  bald  behind, 
Nor  ever  lost  a  moment  in  his  course. 
Nature  looks  all  around  her,  like  the  sun, 
And  keeps  her  works,  like  his  dependent  worlds, 
In  constant  motion.     She  hath  neyer  miss'd 
One  ^tep  in  her  victorious  march  of  change, 
For  chance  she  knows  not ;  He  who  made  her,  ga^ 
His  daughter  power  o'er  all  except  Himself, 
— Power  in  whate'er  she  does  to  do  his  will : 
Behold  the  true,  the  royal  law  of  Nature  1 — 
Hence  failures,  hinderances,  and  devastations 
Are  turn'd  to  trophies  of  exhausllcss  skill. 
That  out  of  ruin  brings  forth  strength  and  beauty, 
Yea,  life  and  immortality  from  death. 

I  gazed  in  consternation  on  the  wreck 
Of  that  fair  island,  strown  with  prostrate  trees, 
The  soil  plow'd  up  with  horrid  inundations. 
The  surface  black  with  sea-weed,  not  a  glimpse 
Of  verdure  peeping  ;  stems,  toughs,  foliage  lay 
Rent,  broken,  clotted,  perishing  in  slime. 
"  How  are  the  mighty  fallen  ! "  I  exclaim'd  : 
"  Surely  the  feller  hath  come  up  among  ye. 
And  with  a  stroke  invisible  hewn  down 
The  growth  of  centuries  in  one  dark  hour ! 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  perfection  ?    This 
The  abortive  issue  of  a  new  creation, 
Ere  while  so  fruitful  in  abounding  joys. 
And  hopes  fulfilling  more  than  all  they  promised 
Asres  to  come  can  but  repair  this  ravage ; 
The  past  is  lost  for  ever.     Reckless  Time 
Sta\s  not :  astonied  Nature  stands  aghast, 
And  wrings  her  hands  in  silent  agony, 
Amidst  the  annihilation  of  her  works." 

Thus  raved  I;  but  I  wrong'd  thee,  glorious  Natvi 
With  whom  adversity  is  but  transition. 
Thou  never  didst  despair,  wert  never  foil'd. 
Nor  weary  with  exhaustion,  since  the  day. 
When,  at  the  word,  "  Let  there  be  light,"  light  spra 
And  show'd  thee  rising  from  primeval  darkness, 
That  fell  back  like  a  veil  from  thy  young  form, 
And  Chaos  fled  before  the  apparition. 

"\Miile  yet  mine  eye  was  mourning  o'er  the  sc< 
Nature  and  Time  were  working  miracles : 
The  isle  was  renovated :  grass  and  flowers 
Crept  quietly  around  the  fallen  trees ;  ! 

A  deeper  soil  imbedded  them,  and  o'er  i 

The  common  sepulchre  of  all  their  race 
Threw  a  rich  covering  of  embroider'd  turf^ 
Lovely  to  look  on  as  the  tranquil  main. 
When,  in  his  noon  ward  track,  the  unclouded  suij 
Tints  the  ereen  waves  with  every  hue  of  heave 

280       ■ 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


97 


More  exquisitely  brilliant  and  aerial 
Than  morn  or  evening's  gaudier  pageantry. 
A.midst  that  burial  of  the  niighly  dead, 
riiere  was  a  resurrection  Iroin  the  dust 
Df  lowly  plants,  impatient  lor  the  light, 
Long  interrupted  by  o'ershadowing  woods, 
iVhile  in  the  womb  of  earth  their  embryos  tarried, 
ijnfruclifying,  yet  imperishable. 
Inge  remnants  of  the  forest  stood  apart, 
Jke  Tadmor's  pillars  in  the  wilderness, 
Startling  the  traveller  'midst  his  thoughts  of  home ; 
—Bare  trunks  of  broken  trees,  that  gave  their  heads 
Vo  the  win.i's  ax,  but  would  not  yield  their  roots 
Vm  the  uptearing  violence  of  the  floods. 
>om  these  a  slender  race  of  scions  sprang, 
Vhich  with  their  filial  arms  embraced  and  shelter'd 
rhe  monumental  relics  of  tlieir  sires ; 
,Jut  limited  in  number,  scatter'd  wide, 
\.nd  slow  of  growth,  they  overran  no  more 
rhe  Sun's  dominions  in  that  open  isle. 

I   Meanwrhile  the  sea-fowl,  that  survived  the  storm, 
Vhose   rage  had  fleck'd  the  waves  with  shatter'd 

plumes 
ind  weltering  carcasses,  the  prey  of  sharks, 
bame  from  their  fastnesses  among  the  rocks, 
jind  multiplied  like  clouds  when  rains  are  brooding, 
I'r  flowers,  when  clear  warm  sunshine  follows  rain. 
!'he  inland  birds  had  perish'd,  nor  again, 
'>y  airy  voyagers  from  shores  unknown, 
iV'as  silence  broken  on  the  unwooded  plains : 
j.nother  race  of  wing'd  inhabitants 
,re  long  possess'd  and  peopled  all  the  soil. 

j  The  sun  had  sunk  where  sky  and  ocean  meet, 
.nd  each  might  seem  the  other ;  sky  below, 
tv'^ith  richest  garniture  of  clouds  inlaid ; 
Icean  above  with  isles  and  continents, 
ilurained  from  a  source  no  longer  seen: 
tar  in  the  east,  through  heaven's  intenser  blue, 
'wo  brilliant  sparks,  like  sudden  stars,  appear'd  ; 
fot  stars  indeed,  but  birds  of  mighty  wing, 
Letorted  neck,  and  javelin-pointed  bill, 
JTiat  made  the  air  sigh  as  they  cut  it  through. 
I'hey  gain'd  upon  the  eye,  and  as  they  came, 
-nlarged,  grew  brighter,  and  display'd  their  forms 
I  midst  the  golden  evening ;  pearly-white, 
lut  ruby-tinctured.    On  the  loftiest  cliff 
[hey  settled,  hovering  ere  they  touch'd  the  ground, 
}nd  uttering,  in  a  language  of  their  own, 
let  such  as  every  ear  might  understand, 
nd  every  bosom  answer,  notes  of  joy, 
[nd  gratulation  for  that  resting-place, 
{lately  and  beautiful  they  stood,  and  clapt 
i'heir  van-broad  pinions,  streak'd  their  ruffled  plumes, 
l.nd  ever  and  anon  broke  oflf  to  gaze, 
jk'^ith  yearning  pleasure,  told  in  gentle  murmurs, 
n  that  strange  land  their  destined  home  and  country, 
light  round  them  threw  her  brown  transparent  gloom, 
'hrough  which  their  lonely  images  yet  shone, 
.ike  things  unearthly,  while  they  bow'd  their  heads 
'n  their  fidl  bosoms,  and  reposed  till  mom. 
knew  the  Pelicans,  and  cried — "  All  hail ! 
e  future  dwellers  in  the  wilderness!" 

At  early  dawn  I  mark'd  them  in  the  sky, 
atching  the  morning  colors  on  tlieir  plumes ; 
36  Y2 


Not  in  voluptuous  pastime  revelling  there, 
Among  the  rosy  clouds,  while  orient  hiavcn 
Flamed  like  the  opening  gates  of  Paradise, 
Whence  issued  for'.h  the  Angel  of  the  sun, 
And  gladden'd  Nature  with  returning  day: 
— Eager  for  food,  their  searching  eyes  they  fix'd 
On  ocean's  unroU'd  volume,  from  an  height 
That  brought  immensity  within  their  scope  ; 
Yet  with  such  power  of  vision  look'd  lliey  down. 
As  though  they  watch'd  the  shell-llsh  slowly  gliding 
O'er  sunken  rocks,  or  climbing  trees  of  coral. 
On  indefatigable  wing  upheld. 

Breath,  pulse,  existence,  seem'd  suspended  in  them  : 
They  were  as  pictures  painted  on  the  sky  ; 
Till  suddenly,  aslant,  away  they  shot. 
Like  meteors  changed  from  stars  to  gleams  of  light- 
ning. 
And  struck  upon  the  deep ;  where,  in  wild  play, 
Their  quarry  flounder'd,  unsuspecting  harm. 
With  terrible  voracity,  they  plunged 
Their  heads  among  the  aflrighted  shoals,  and  beat 
A  tempest  on  the  surges  with  tlieir  wings. 
Till  flashing  clouds  of  foam,  and  spray  conceal'd  thera. 
Nimbly  they  seized  and  secreted  their  prey, 
Alive  and  wriggling  in  the  elastic  net, 
WTiich  Nature  hung  beneath  their  grasping  beaks , 
Till,  swoln  with  captures,  the  unwieldy  burthen 
Clogg'd  their  slow  flight,  as  heavily  to  land 
These  mighty  hunters  of  the  deep  rcturn'd. 
There  on  the  cragged  cliffs  they  perch'd  at  ease, 
Gorging  their  hapless  victims  one  by  one ; 
Then  full  and  weary,  side  by  side,  they  slept,         ■ 
Till  evening  roused  them  to  the  chase  again. 

Harsh  seems  the  ordinance,  that  life  by  life 
Should  be  sustain'd  ;  and  yet  w  hen  all  must  die, 
And  be  like  water  spilt  upon  the  ground, 
Which  none  can  gather  up. — the  speediest  fate, 
Though  violent  and  terrible,  is  best. 
O  with  what  horrors  would  creation  groan, — 
What  agonies  would  ever  be  before  us. 
Famine  and  pestilence,  disease,  despair. 
Anguish  and  pain  in  every  hideous  shape, 
Had  all  to  wait  the  slow  decay  of  Nature ! 
Life  were  a  martyrdom  of  synipathy ; 
Death,  lingering,  raging,  writhing,  shrieking  torture: 
The  grave  would  be  abolish'd  ;  this  gay  world 
A  valley  of  dry  bones,  a  Golgotha, 
In  which  the  living  stumbled  o'er  the  dead. 
Till  thev  could  fall  no  more,  and  blind  perdition 
Swept  frail  mortality  away  for  ever. 
'T  was  wisdom,  mercv,  goodness,  that  ordain'd 
Life  in  such  infinite  profusion, — Death 
So  sure,  so  prompt,  so  multiform  to  those 
That  never  sinn'd,  that  know  not  guilt,  that  fear 
No  wrath  to  come,  and  have  no  heaven  to  lose 

Love  found  that  lonely  couple  on  their  isle. 
And  soon  surrounded  them  with  blithe  companions. 
The  noble  birds,  with  skill  spontaneous,  framed 
A  nest  of  reeds  among  the  giant-grass. 
That  waved  in  lights  and  sliadows  o'er  the  soil. 
There,  in  sweet  thraldom,  yet  unweening  why, 
The  patient  dam,  who  ne'er  till  now  had  known 
Paternal  instinct,  brooded  o'er  her  eggs, 
Long  ere  she  found  the  curious  secret  out. 
That  life  was  hatching  in  their  brittle  shells. 

281 


98 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then,  from  a  wild  rapacious  bird  of  prey, 

Tamed  by  the  kindly  process,  she  became 

'J'hat  gentlest  of  all  living  things — a  mother ; 

Gentlest  while  yearning  o'er  her  naked  young, 

Fiercest  when  stirr'd  by  anger  to  defend  them. 

Her  mate  himself  the  softening  power  confess'd, 

Forgot  his  sloth,  restrain'd  his  appetite, 

And  ranged  the  sky  and  fish'd  the  stream  for  her. 

Or,  when  o'erwearied  Nature  forced  her  off 

To  shake  her  torpid  feathers  in  the  breeze, 

And  bathe  her  bosom  in  the  cooling  flood, 

}fe  took  her  place,  and  felt  through  every  nerve, 

While  the  plump  nestlings  throbb'd  against  his  heart, 

The  tenderness  that  makes  the  vulture  mild ; 

Yea,  half  unwillingly  his  post  resign'd. 

When,  home-sick  with  the  absence  of  an  hour, 

She  hurried  back,  and  drove  him  from  her  seat 

With  pecking  bill  and  cry  of  fond  distress, 

Answer'd  by  him  with  murmurs  of  delight, 

Whose  gutturals  harsh  to  her  were  love's  own  music. 

Then,  settling  down,  like  foam  upon  the  wave, 

White,  flickering,  eflfervescent,  soon  subsiding, 

Her  ruffled  pinions  smoothly  she  composed  ; 

And,  while  beneath  the  comfort  of  her  wings, 

Her  crowded  progeny  quite  fill'd  the  nest. 

The  halcyon  sleeps  not  sounder,  when  the  wind 

Is  breathless,  and  the  sea  without  a  curl, 

— Nor  dreams  the  halcyon  of  serener  days, 

Or  nights  more  beautiful  with  silent  stars. 

Than,  in  that  hour,  the  mother  Pelican, 

When  the  warm  tumults  of  afltction  sunk 

Into  calm  sleep,  and  dreams  of  Avhat  they  were, 

— Dreams  more  delicious  than  reality. 

— He  sentinel  beside  her  stood,  and  wafch'd, 

With  jealous  eye,  the  raven  in  the  clouds. 

And  the  rank  sea-mews  wheeling  round  the  clifls. 

Woe  to  the  reptile  then  that  ventured  nigh ; 

The  snaji  of  his  tremendous  bill  was  like 

Death's  scythe,  down-culting  everything  it  struck. 

The  heedless  lizard,  in  his  gambols,  peop'd 

Upon  the  guarded  nest,  from  out  the  flowers. 

But  paid  the  instant  forfeit  of  his  life  ; 

Nor  could  the  serpent's  subtlety  elude 

Capture,  when  gliding  by,  nor  in  defence 

Might  his  malignant  fangs  and  venom  save  him. 

Ere  long  the  thriving  brood  outgrew  their  cradle. 
Ran  through  the  grass,  and  dabbled  in  the  pools ; 
No  sooner  denizens  of  earth,  than  made 
Free  both  of  air  and  water ;  day  by  day, 
New  lessons,  exercises,  and  amusements 
Employ'd  the  old  to  teach,  the  ^'oung  To  learn. 
Now  floating  on  the  blue  lagoon  behold  them ; 
The  Sire  and  Dam  in  swan-like  beautv  steering, 
Their  Cygnets  following  through  the  foamy  wake. 
Picking  the  leaves  of  plants,  pursuing  insects, 
Or  catching  at  the  bubbles  as  they  broke : 
Till  on  some  minor  fry,  in  reedy  shallows, 
\Vith  flappinfr  pinions  and  unsparing  beaks. 
The  woll-lauffht  scholars  plied  their  double  art. 
To  fish  in  troubled  waters,  and  secure 
The  petty  captives  in  their  maiden  pouches ; 
Then  hurry  with  their  banquet  to  the  shore. 
With  feet,  wings,  breast,  half-swimming  and  half- 
flying. 
But  when  their  pens  grew  strong  to  fight  the  storm, 


And  buffet  with  the  breakers  on  the  reef, 
The  Parents  put  them  to  severer  proof: 
On  beetling  rocks  the  little  ones  were  marshall'd; 
There,  by  endearments,  stripes,  example,  urged 
To  try  the  void  convexity  of  heaven. 
And  plow  the  ocean's  horizontal  field. 
Timorous  at  first  they  flutter'd  round  the  verge, 
Balanced  and  furl'd  their  hesitating  wings, 
Then  put  them  forth  again  wi.n  steadier  aim; 
Now,  gaining  courage  as  they  felt  the  wind 
Dilate  their  feathers,  fill  their  airy  frames 
With  buoyancy  that  bore  them  from  their  feet, 
They  vielded  all  their  burthen  to  the  breeze. 
And  sail'd  and  soar'd  where'er  their  guardians  le*; 
Ascending,  hovering,  wheeling,  or  alighting. 
They  search'd  the  deep  in  quest  of  nobler  game 
Than  yet  their  inexperience  had  encounler'd  ; 
With  these  they  battled  in  that  element. 
Where  wings  or  fins  were  equally  at  home. 
Till,  conquerors  in  many  a  desperate  strife. 
They  dragg'd  their  spoils  to  land,  and  gorged  at  leisure. 

Thus  perfected  in  all  the  arts  of  life, 
That  simple  Pelicans  require, — save  one. 
Which  moiher-bird  did  never  teach  her  daughter, 
— The  inimitable  art  to  build  a  nest ; 
Love,  for  his  own  delightful  school,  reserving 
That  mystery  which  novice  never  fail'd 
To  learn  infallibly  when  taught  by  him  : 
— Hence  that  small  masterpiece  of  Nature's  art. 
Still  unimpair'd,  still  unimproved,  remains 
The  same  in  site,  material,  shape,  and  texture. 
While  every  kind  a  different  structure  frames. 
All  build  alike  of  each  peculiar  kind : 
The  nightingale,  that  dwelt  in  Adam's  bower. 
And  pour'd  her  stream  of  music  through  his  dreams 
The  soaring  lark,  that  led  the  eye  of  Eve 
Into  the  clouds,  her  thoughts  into  the  heaven 
Of  heavens,  where  lark  nor  eye  can  penetrate  ; 
The  dove,  that  perch'd  upon  the  Tree  of  Life, 
And  made  her  bed  among  its  thickest  leaves; 
All  the  vving'd  habitants  of  Paradise, 
Whose  songs.once  mingled  with  the  songs  of  Angeb 
Wove  their  first  nests  as  curiously  and  well 
As  the  wood-minstrels  in  our  evil  day. 
After  the  labors  of  six  thousand  years, 
In  which  their  ancestors  have  fail'd  to  add, 
To  alter  or  diminish,  anything 
In  that,  of  which  Love  only  knows  the  secret, 
And  teaches  every  mother  for  herself, 
Without  the  power  to  impart  it  to  her  offspring. 
— Thus  perfected  in  all  the  arts  of  life, 
That  simple  Pehcans  require,  save  this. 
Those  Parents  drove  their  young  away ;  the  youn^ 
Gaily  forsook  their  parents.    Soon  enthrall" d 
With  love-alliances  among  themselves. 
They  built  their  nests,  as  happy  instinct  wrought 
Within  their  bosoms,  wakening  powers  unknown, 
Till  sweet  necessity  was  laid  upon  them; 
They  bred,  and  rear'd  their  little  families. 
As  they  were  train'd  and  disciplined  before. 

Thus  wings  were  multiplied  from  year  to  year,  ' 
And  ere  the  patriarch-twain,  in  good  old  age, 
Resign'd  their  breath  beside  that  ancient  nest, 
In  which  themselves  had  nursed  a  hundred  brood: 
The  isle  was  peopled  with  their  progenv. 

'232 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


CANTO  V. 


Meanwhile,  not  idle,  though  unvvatch'd  by  me, 
The  coral  architects  in  silence  rear'd 
Tower  after  tower  beneath  the  dark  abyss. 
Pyramidal  in  form  the  fabrics  rose, 
From  ample  basements  narrowing  to  the  height, 
il'ntil  they  pierced  the  surface  of  the  flood, 
A.nd  dimpling  eddies  sparkled  round  their  peaks. 
Then  (if  great  things  with  small  may  be  compared) 
They  spread  like  water-lilies,  whose  broad  leaves 
Make  green  and  sunny  islets  on  the  pool, 
'"or  golden  llies,  on  summer-days,  to  haunt, 
>afe  from  the  lightning-seizure  of  the  trout ; 
i>  yield  their  laps  to  catch  the  minnow,  springing 
Clear  from  the  stream  to  'scape  the  ruffian  pike, 
!rhat  prowls  in  disappointed  rage  beneath, 
\nd  wonders  where  the  little  wretch  found  refuge. 

One  headland  topt  the  waves,  another  foUow'd; 
\  third,  a  tenth,  a  twentieth  soon  appear'd, 
pill  the  long-barren  gulf  in  travail  lay 
Ivith  many  an  infant  struggling  into  birth. 
Larger  they  grew  and  lovelier,  when  they  breathed 
j  he  vital  air,  and  felt  the  genial  sun  ; 
|lS  though  a  living  spirit  dwelt  in  each, 
jvhich,  like  the  inmate  of  a  flexile  shell, 
llouided  the  shapeless  slough  with  its  own  motion, 
.nd  painted  it  with  colors  of  the  mom. 
.midst  that  group  of  younger  sisters,  stood 
'he  Isle  of  Pelicans,  as  stands  the  moon 
:t  midnight,  queen  among  the  minor  stars, 
'iffering  in  splendor,  magnitude,  and  distance. 
I)  look'd  that  archipelago  ;  small  isles, 
y  interwinding  channels  link'd  yet  sunder'd  ; 
!1  flourishing  in  peaceful  fellowship, 
ike  forest  oalcs  that  love  society: 
i-Of  various  growth  and  progress ;  here,  a  rock 
In  which  a  single  palm-tree  w  aved  its  banner ; 
iliere,  sterile  tracts  unmoulder'd  into  soil ; 
jonder,  dark  woods,  whose  foliage  swept  the  water, 
without  a  speck  of  turf,  or  line  of  shore, 
|s  though  their  roots  were  anchor'd  in  the  ocean. 
jut  most  were  gardens  redolent  with  flowers, 
jnd  orchards  bending  with  Hesperian  fruit, 
hat  realized  the  dreams  of  olden  time. 

Throughout  this  commonwealth  of  sea-sprung  lands, 
fe  kindled  in  ten  thousand  happy  forms, 
irlh,  air,  and  ocean  were  all  full  of  life. 
11  highest  in  the  rank  of  being,  soar'd 
16  fowls  amphibious,  and  the  inland  tribes 
dainty  plumage  or  melodious  song. 
gaudy  robes  of  many-color'd  patches, 
le  parrots  swung  like  blossoms  on  the  trees, 

(      hile  their  harsh  voices  undeceived  the  ear. 
ore  delicately  pencill'd,  finer  draw^n 
shape  and  lineament;  too  exquisite 
•r  gnjss  delights;  the  Birds  of  Paradise 
oaled  aloof,  as  though  they  lived  on  air, 

<      id  were  the  orient  progeny  of  heaven, 

■  spirits  made  perfect  veil'd  in  shining  raiment. 

1      cm  flower  to  flower,  where  wild  bees  flew  and  sung 

f--    I  countless,  small,  and  musical  as  they, 


Showers  of  bright  humming-birds  came  down,  and 

plied 

The  same  ambrosial  task,  with  slender  bill 
Extracting  honey,  hidden  in  those  bells, 
Whose  richest  blooms  grew  pale  beneath  the  blaze 
Of  twinkling  winglets  hovering  o'er  their  petals, 
Brilliant  as  rain-drops,  when  the  western  sun 
Sees  his  own  miniature  of  beams  in  each. 

High  on  the  cliffs,  down  on  the  shelly  reef. 
Or  gliding  like  a  silver-shaded  cloud 
Through  the  blue  heaven,  the  mighty  albatros 
Inhaled  the  breezes,  sought  his  huml)le  food. 
Or,  where  his  kindred  like  a  flock  reposed. 
Without  a  shepherd,  on  the  grassy  downs, 
Smoothed  his  white  fleece,  and  slumber'd  in  their 
midst. 

Wading  through  marshes,  where  the  rank  sea-weed 
With  spongy  moss  and  flaccid  lichens  strove. 
Flamingoes,  in  their  crimson  tunics,  stalk'd 
On  stately  legs,  wilh  far-exploring  eye  ; 
Or  fed  and  slept,  in  regimental  lines, 
Watch'd  by  their  sentinels,  whose  clarion-screams 
All  in  an  instant  woke  the  startled  troop, 
That  mounted  like  a  glorious  exhalation, 
And  vanish'd  through  the  welkin  far  away. 
Nor  paused  till,  on  some  lonely  coast  alighting, 
Again  their  gorgeous  cohort  took  the  field. 

The  fierce  sea-eagle,  humble  in  attire, 
In  port  terrific,  from  his  lonely  eyrie 
(Itself  a  burthen  for  the  tallest  tree) 
Look'd  down  o'er  land  and  sea  as  his  dominions . 
Now',  from  long  chase,  descending  with  his  prey 
Young  seal  or  dolphin,  in  his  deadly  clutch, 
He  fed  his  eaglets  in  the  noon-day  sun : 
Nor  less  at  midnight  ranged  the  deep  for  game ; 
At  length  entrapp'd  with  his  own  talons,  struck 
Too  deep  to  be  withdrawn,  where  a  strong  shark,. 
Roused  by  the  anguish,  with  impetuous  plunge, 
Dragg'd  his  assailant  down  into  the  abyss, 
Struggling  in  vain  for  liberty  and  life ; 
His  young  ones  heard  their  parent's  dying  shrieks, 
And  watch'd  in  vain  for  his  returning  wing. 

Here  ran  the  stormy  petrels  on  the  waves. 
As  though  they  were  the  shadows  of  themselves 
Reflected  from  a  loftier  flight  through  space. 
The  stern  and  gloomy  raven  haimted  here, 
A  hermit  oi"  the  atmosphere,  on  land 
Among  vociferating  crowds  a  stranger. 
Whose  hoarse,  low,  ominous  croak  disclaim'd  com 

munion 
With  those,  upon  the  oflTal  of  whose  meals 
He  gorged  alone,  or  tore  their  own  rank  corses. 
The  heavy  penguin,  neither  fish  nor  fowl. 
With  scaly  feathers  and  wilh  finny  wings, 
Plump'd  stone-like  from  the  rock  into  the  gulf. 
Rebounding  upward  swift  as  from  a  sling. 
Through  yielding  water  as  through  limpid  air, 
The  cormorant,  Death's  living  arrow,  flew. 
Nor  ever  miss'd  a  stroke,  or  dealt  a  second, 
So  true  the  infallible  destroyer's  aim. 

Millions  of  creatures  such  as  these,  and  kinds* 
Unnamed  by  man,  possessed  those  busy  isles ; 

283 


100 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Each,  in  its  brief  existence,  to  itself, 

The  first,  last  being  in  the  universe, 

AVilh  whom  the  whole  began,  endured,  and  ended: 

Blest  ignorance  of  bliss,  not  made  for  them ! 

Happy  exemption  from  the  fear  of  death, 

And  that  which  makes  the  pangs  of  death  immortal 

The  undying  worm,  the  fire  unquenchable, 

— Conscience,  the  bosom-hell  of  guilty  man ! 

The  eyes  of  all  look'd  up  to  Him,  whose  hand 

Had  made  them,  and  supplied  their  daily  need ; 

-Although  they  knew  Him  not,  they  look'd  to  Him; 

And  He,  whose  mercy  is  o'er  all  his  works, 

Forgot  not  one  of  his  large  family. 

But  cared  for  each  as  for  an  only  child. 

They  plow'd  not,  sow'd  not,  gather'd  not  in  bams, 

Thought  not  of  yesterday,  nor  knew  to-morrow ; 

Yet  harvests  inexhaustible  they  reap'd 

In  the  prolific  furrows  of  the  main  ; 

Or  from  its  sunless  caverns  brought  to  light 

Treasures  for  which  contending  kings  might  war, — 

Gems,  for  which  queens  would  yield  their  hands  to 

slaves, — 
By  them  despised  as  valueless  and  nought  ; 
From  the  rough  shell  they  pick'd  the  luscious  food, 
And  left  a  prince's  ransom  in  the  pearl. 

Nature's  prime  favorites  were  the  Pelicans  ; 
High-fed,  long-lived,  and  sociable  and  free. 
They  ranged  in  wedded  pairs,  or  martial  bands, 
For  play  or  slaughter.     Oft  have  I  beheld 
A  little  army  take  the  wat'ry  field. 
With  outstretch'd  pinions  form  a  spacious  ring. 
Then  pressing  to  the  centre,  through  the  waves, 
Inclose  thick  shoals  within  their  narrowing  toils, 
Till  multitudes  entangled  fell  a  prey : 
Or,  when  the  flying-fish  in  sudden  clouds, 
Burst  from  the  sea,  and  fluttered  through  the  air. 
These  giant  fowlers  snapt  them,  hke  musketoes 
By  swallows  hunted  through  the  summer  sky. 

I  turn'd  again  to  look  upon  that  isle. 
Whence  from  one  pair  those  colonies  had  issued 
That  through  these  Cyclades  at  freedom  roved, 
Fish'd  every  stream,  and  fed  on  every  shore  ; 
When,  lo !  a  spectacle  of  strange  extremes 
Awaken'd  sweet  and  melancholy  thoughts: 
All  that  is  helpless,  beautiful,  endearing 
In  infancy,  in  prime  of  youth,  in  love  ; 
All  that  is -mournful  in  decay,  old  age. 
And  dissolution  ;  all  that  awes  the  eye, 
And  chills  the  bosom,  in  the  sad  remains 
Of  poor  mortality,  which  last  awhile, 
To  show  that  life  hath  been,  but  is  no  longer , 
— All  these  in  blended  images  appear'd. 
Exulting,  brooding,  perishing  before  me. 

It  was  a  land  of  births. — Unnumber'd  nests, 
Of  reeds  and  rushes,  studded  all  the  groimd. 
A  few  were  desolate  and  fallen  to  ruin ; 
Many  were  building  from  those  waste  materials ; 
On  some  the  dams  were  sitting,  till  the  stroke 
Of  theii  quick  bills  should  break  the  prison-shells. 
And  let  the  little  captives  forth  to  light. 
With  their  first  breath  demanding  food  and  shelter. 
In  others  I  beheld  the  brood  new-fledged. 
Struggling  to  clamber  out,  take  wing,  and  fly 
Up  to  the  heavens,  or  fathom  the  abyss. 


Meanwhile  the  parent  from  the  sea  supplied 

A  daily  feast,  and  from  the  pure  lagoon 

Brought  living  water  in  her  sack,  to  cool 

The  impatient  fever  of  their  clamorous  throats. 

No  need  had  she,  as  hieroglyphics  feign 

(A  mystic  lesson  of  maternal  love). 

To  pierce  her  breast,  and  with  the  vital  stream, 

Warm  from  its  fountain,  slake  their  thirst  in  bloo 

— The  blood  which  nourish'd  them  ere  they  w 

hatch'd, 
^Miile  the  crude  egg  within  herself  was  forming 

It  was  a  land  of  death. — Between  those  nests, 
The  quiet  earth  was  feather'd  with  the  spoils 
Of  aged  Pelicans,  that  hither  came 
To  die  in  peace,  where  they  had  spent  in  love 
The  sweetest  periods  of  their  long  existence. 
Where  they  w  ere  w  ont  to  build,  and  breed  their  you 
There  they  lay  down  to  rise  no  more  for  ever, 
And  close  their  eyes  upon  the  dearest  sight 
On  which  their  living  eyes  had  loved  to  dwell, 
— The  nest  where  every  joy  to  them  was  centre( 
There  rife  corruption  tainted  them  so  lightly, 
The  moisture  seem'd  to  vanish  from  their  relics. 
As  dew  from  gossamer,  that  leaves  the  net-work 
Spread  on  the  ground,  and  glistening  in  the  sun. 
Thus,  when  a  breeze  the  ruffled  plumage  stirr'd, 
That  lay  like  drifted  snow  upon  the  soil. 
Their  slender  skeletons  were  seen  beneath, 
So  delicately  framed,  and  half  transparent. 
That  I  have  marvell'd  how  a  bird  so  noble, 
When  in  his  full  magnificent  attire. 
With  pinions  wider  than  the  king  of  vultures. 
And  down  elastic,  thicker  than  the  swan's, 
Should  leave  so  small  a  cage  of  ribs  to  mark 
Where  vigorous  life  had  dwelt  a  hundred  yeara 

Such  was  that  scene ;  the  dying  and  the  deg 
Next  neighbors  to  the  living  and  the  unborn. 
O  how  much  happiness  was  here  enjov'd ! 
How  little  misen,'  had  been  euflfered  here ! 
Those  humble  Pelicans  had  each  fulfill 'd 
The  utmost  purpose  of  its  span  of  being, 
And  done  its  duty  in  its  narrow  circle, 
As  surely  as  the  sun,  in  his  career. 
Accomplishes  the  glorious  end  of  his. 


CANTO  \1. 

I 

"And  thus,"  methought,  "ten  thousand  suiuiaj 

lead 
The  stars  to  glory  in  their  annual  courses  ; 
Moons  without  number  thus  may  wax  and  wa» 
And  winds  alternate  blow  in  cross-monsoons. 
While   here — through   self-beginning   rotrnds/df' 

ending. 
Then  self-renew'd,  without  advance  or  failure,  |, 
Existence  fluctuates  only  like  the  tide,  ,' 

Whose  everlasting  changes  bring  no  change,     ^ 
But  billow  follows  billow  to  the  shore, 
Recoils,  and  billow  out  of  billow  swells ; 
An  endless  whirl  of  ebbing,  flowing  foam. 
Where  ever\'  bubble  is  like  every  other. 
And  Ocean's  face  immutable  as  Heaven's. 
Here  is  no  progress  to  subliraer  life ; 

284 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


101 


Nature  stands  still, — stands  at  the  very  point, 
Whence  from  a  vantage-ground  her  bolder  steps 
Might  rise  resplendent  on  the  scale  of  being  ; 
Rank  over  rank,  awakening  with  her  tread, 
Inquisitive,  intelligent;  aspiring, 
Each  above  other,  all  above  themselves, 
Till  every  generation  should  transcend 
The  former,  as  the  former  all  the  past. 

"  Such,  such  alone  were  meet  inhabitants 
I  For  these  fair  isles,  so  wonderfully  form'd 
Amidst  the  solitude  of  sea  and  sky, 
On  which  my  wandering  spirit  firet  was  cast, 
And  still  beyond  whose  girdle,  eye  nor  wing 
Can  carry  me  to  undiscover'd  climes, 
Where  many  a  nobler  race  may  dwell ;  whose  waifs 
And  exiles,  tost  by  tempests  on  the  flood, 
Hither  might  drift  upon  their  native  trees; 
Or,  like  their  own  free  birds,  on  fearless  pinions, 
Make  voyages  amidst  the  pathless  heaven, 
And,  lighting,  colonize  these  fertile  tracts, 
'Recover'd  from  the  barrenness  of  ocean. 
Whose  wealth  might  well  repay  the  brave  adventure. 
I — Hath  jNature  spent  her  strength  ?  W^by  stopp'd  she 

here  ? 
Why  stopp'd  not  lower,  if  to  rise  no  higher  ? 
Can  she  not  summon  from  more  ancient  regions, 
Beyond  the  rising  or  the  setting  sun, 
Creatures,  as  far  above  the  mightiest  here 
jAs  yonder  eagle  flaming  at  high  noon, 
Outsoars  the  bat  that  flutters  through  the  twilight  ? 
Or  as  the  tender  Pelican  excels 
The  anomalous  abortion  of  the  rock. 
In  which  plant,  fossil,  animal  unite  ? 

"  But  changes  here  may  happen — changes  must ! 
jWhat  hinders  that  new  shores,  should  yet  ascend 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  deep,  and  spread 
iTill  all  converge,  from  one  circumference 
Into  a  solid  breadth  of  table-land, 
Bound  by  the  horizon,  canopied  with  heaven, 
jAnd  ocean  in  his  own  abyss  absorbed  ?" 

j     While  these  imaginations  cross'd  the  mind, 

iMy  thoughts  fulfiU'd  themselves  before  mine  eyes; 

jThe  islands  moved  hke  circles  upon  water, 
,( Expanding  till  they  touch'd  each  other,  closed 

The  interjacent  straits,  and  thus  became 

;A  spacious  continent  which  fiU'd  the  sea. 

That  change  was  total,  hke  a  birth,  a  death; 

— Birth,  that  from  native  darkness  brings  to  light 
» fThe  young  inhabitant  of  this  gay  world  ; 

[Death,  that  from  seen  to  unseen  things  removes, 

'And  swallows  time  up  in  eternity. 
^  [That  which  had  been,  for  ever  ceased  to  be, 

jAnd  that  which  follow'd  was  a  new  creation 
i  I  Wrought  from  the  disappearance  of  the  old. 

So  fled  that  pageant  universe  away, 
e-  With  all  its  isles  and  waters.     So  I  found 

1  Myself  translated  to  that  other  >vorld. 
By  sleight  of  fancy,  like  the  unconscious  act 
Of  waking  from  a  pleasant  dream,  with  sweet 
Relapse  into  a  more  transporting  vision. 

The  nursery  of  brooding  Pelicans, 
The  dormitory  of  their  dead,  had  vanish'd, 
And  all  the  minor  spots  of  rock  and  verdure, 


The  abodes  of  happy  millions  were  no  more ; 

But  in  their  place  a  shadowy  landscape  lay. 

On  whoso  extremest  western  verge,  a  gleam 

Of  living  silver,  to  the  downward  sun 

Intensely  glittering,  mark'd  the  boundary  line, 

Which  ocean,  held  by  chains  invisible. 

Fretted  and  Ibam'd  in  vain  to  overleap. 

Woods,  mountains,  valleys,  rivers,  glens,  and  plains 

Diversifled  the  scene  : — that  scene  was  wild, 

Magnificent,  defonn'd,  or  beautiful, 

As  framed  expressly  for  all  kinds  of  life. 

With  all  life's  labors,  suflTerings,  and  enjoyments; 

Untouch'd  as  yet  by  any  meaner  hand 

Than  His  who  made  it,  and  pronounced  it  good. 

And  good  it  was ; — free  as  light,  air,  fire,  water. 

To  every  thing   that  breathed  upon  its  surface. 

From  the  small  worm  that  crept  abroad  at  midnight 

To  sip  cool  dews,  and  feed  on  sleeping  flowers, 

Then  slunk  into  its  hole,  the  little  vampyre ! 

Through  every  species  which  I  yet  had  seen. 

To  animals,  of  tribes  and  forms  unknown 

In  the  lost  islands  ; — beasts  that  ranged  the  forests, 

Grazed  in  the  valleys,  bounded  o'er  the  hills. 

Reposed  in  rich  savannas,  from  grey  rocks 

Pick'd  the  thin    herbage    sprouting   through   their 

fissures ; 
Or  in  waste  howling  deserts  found  oases, 
And  fountains  pouring  sweeter  streams  than  nectar 
And  more  melodious  than  the  nightingale, 
— So  to  the  faint  and  perishing  they  seem'd. 


I  gazed  on  ruminating  herds  of  kine, 
And  sheep  for  ever  wandering ;  goats  that  swung 
Like  spiders  on  the  crags,  so  slight  their  hold  ; 
Deer,  playful  as  their  fawns,  in  peace,  but  fell 
As  battling  bulls,  in  wars  of  jealousy  : 
Through  flowery  champaigns  roam'd  the  fleet  gazelles. 
Of  many  a  color,  size,  and  shape, — all  graceful ; 
In  every  look,  step,  attitude  prepared. 
Even  at  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  to  vanish, 
And  leave  a  solitude  where  thousands  stood 
With  heads  declined,  and  nibbling  eagerly 
As  locusts  when  they  light  on  some  new  soil. 
And  move  no  more  till  they  have  shorn  it  bare. 
On  these,  with  famine  unappeasable. 
Lithe,  muscular,  huge-boned,  and  hmb'd  for  leaping 
The  brindled  tyrants  of  brute  nature  prey'd : 
The  weak  and  timid  bow'd  before  the  strong. 
The  many  by  the  few  were  hourly  slaughter'd, 
Where  power  was  right,  and  violence  was  law. 

Here  couch'd  the  panting  tiger,  on  the  watch ; 
Impatient  but  unmoved,  his  fire-ball  eyes 
Made  horrid  twilight  in  the  sunless  jungle. 
Till  on  the  heedless  bufl^alo  he  sprang, 
Dragg'd  the  low-bellowing  monster  to  his  lair, 
Crash'd  through  the  ribs  ai  once  into  his  heart, 
Quaff'd  the  hot  blood,  and  gorged  the  quivering  fleeh 
Till  drunk  he  lay.,  as  powerless  as  the  carcass. 

There,  to  the  solitary  lion's  roar 
So  many  echoes  answer'd,  that  there  seem'd 
Ten  in  the  field  for  one  ; — w  here'er  they  tum'd, 
The  flying  animals,  from  cave  to  cave. 
Heard  his  voice  issuing ;  and  recoifd  aghast, 
Only  to  meet  it  nearer  than  before. 
Or,  ere  they  saw  his  shadow  or  his  face. 
Fall  dead  beneath  his  thunder-striking  paw. 

285 


102 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Calm  amidst  scenes  of  havoc,  in  his  own 
Huge  strength  impregnable,  the  elephant 
Offended  none,  but  led  his  quiet  life 
Among  his  old  contemporary  trees. 
Till  nature  laid  him  gently  down  to  rest 
Beneath  the  palm,  which  he  was  wont  to  make 
His  prop  in  slumber;  there  his  relics  lay 
Longer  than  life  itself  had  dwelt  within  them. 
Bees  in  the  ample  hollow  of  his  skull 
Piled  their  wax-citadels,  and  stored  their  honey ; 
Thence  sallied  forth  to  forage  through  the  fields, 
And  swarm'd  in  emigrating  legions  thence : 
There,  httle  burrowing  animals  threw  up 
Hillocks  beneath  the  over-arching  ribs; 
While  birds,  within  the  spinal  labyrinth, 
Contrived  their  nests : — so  wandering  Arabs  pitch 
Their  tents  amidst  Palmyra's  palaces ; 
So  Greek  and  Roman  peasants  build  their  huts 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Parthenon, 
Or  on  the  ruins  of  the  Capitol. 

But  unintelligent  creation  soon 
Fail'd  to  delight ;  the  novelty  departed. 
And  all  look'd  desolate ;  my  eye  grew  weary 
Of  seeing  that  which  it  might  see  for  ever 
Without  a  new  idea  or  emotion ; 
The  mind  within  me  panted  after  mind, 
The  spirit  sigh'd  to  meet  a  kindred  spirit, 
And  in  my  human  heart  there  was  a  void, 
Which  nothing  but  humanity  could  fill. 
At  length,  as  though  a  prison-door  were  open'd. 
Chains  had  fall'n  off,  and  by  an  angel-guide 
Conducted,  I  escaped  that  desert-bourn ; 
And  instantaneously  I  travell'd  on. 
Yet  knew  not  how,  for  wings  nor  feet  I  plied. 
But  w'ilh  a  motion  like  the  lapse  of  thought. 
O'er  many  a  vale  and  mountain  I  was  carried, 
Till  in  the  east,  above  the  ocean's  brim, 
I  saw  the  morning  sun,  and  stay'd  my  course. 
Where  vestiges  of  rude  but  social  life 
Arrested  and  detain'd  attention  long. 

Amidst  the  crowd  of  grovelling  animals, 
A  being  more  majestic  stood  before  me ; 
I  met  an  eye  that  look'd  into  my  soul. 
And  seem'd  to  penetrate  mine  inmost  thoughts. 
Instinctively  I  turn'd  away  to  hide  them. 
For  shame  and  quick  compunction  came  upon  me. 
As  though  detected  on  forbidden  ground, 
Gazing  on  things  unlawful :  but  my  heart 
Relented  quickly,  and  my  bosom  throbb'd 
With  such  unutterable  tenderness, 
That  every  sympathy  of  human  nature 
Was  by  the  beating  of  a  pulse  enkindled, 
And  flash'd  at  once  throughout  the  mind's  recesses, 
As,  in  a  darken'd  chamber,  objects  start 
All  round  the  walls,  the  moment  light  breaks  in. 
The  sudden  tumult  of  surprise  awoke 
My  spirit  from  that  trance  of  vague  abstraction. 
Wherein  I  lived  through  ages,  and  beheld 
Their  generations  pass  so  swiftly  by  me. 
That  years  were  moments  in  their  flight,  and  hours 
The  scenes  of  crowded  centuries  reveal'd  ; 
I  sole  spectator  of  the  wondrous  changes. 
Spell-bound  as  in  a  dream,  and  acquiescing 
In  all  that  happen'd,  though  perplex'd  with  strange 


Conceit  of  something  wanting  through  the  whole. 
That  spell  was  broken,  like  the  vanish'd  film 
From  eyes  born  blind,  miraculously  open'd ; — ■ 
'T  was  gone,  and  I  became  myself  again, 
Restored  to  memory  of  all  I  knew 
From  books  or  schools,  the  world  or  sage  experienc 
With  all  that  folly  or  misfortune  taught  me, — 
Each  hath  her  lessons, — wise  are  they  that  learn. 
Still  the  mysterious  reverie  v^  ent  on. 
And  I  was  still  sole  witness  of  its  issues. 
But  with  clear  mind  and  disenchanted  sight. 
Beholding,  judging,  comprehending  all ; 
Not  passive  and  bewilder'd  as  before. 

What  was  the  being  which  I  then  beheld  ? 
Man  going  forth  amidst  inferior  creatures : 
Not  as  he  rose  in  Eden  out  of  dust. 
Fresh  from  the  moulding  hand  of  Deity ; 
Immortal  breath  upon  his  lips ;  the  light 
Of  uncreated  glory  in  his  soul, 
Lord  of  the  nether  universe,  and  heir 
Of  all  above  him, — all  above  the  sky. 
The  sapphire  pavement  of  his  future  palace : 
Not  so, — but  rather  like  that  morning-star, 
Which  from  the  highest  empyrean  fell 
Into  the  bottomless  abyss  of  darkness ; 
There  flaming  only  with  malignant  beams 
Among  the  constellations  of  his  peers. 
The  third  part  of  Heaven's  host,  with  him  cast  dov 
To  irretrievable  perdition, — thence. 
Amidst  the  smoke  of  unillumined  fires. 
Issuing  like  horrid  sparks  to  blast  creation : 
— Thus,  though  in  dim  eclipse,  before  me  stood, 
As  from  a  world  invisible  call'd  up, 
Man,  in  the  image  of  his  Maker  form'd, 
Man,  to  the  image  of  his  tempter  fall'n ; 
Yet  still  as  far  above  infernal  fiends. 
As  once  a  little  lower  than  the  angels. 
I  knew  him,  own'd  him,  loved  him,  and  exclaim'c 
"  Bone  of  my  bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh,  my  Brother 
Hail  in  the  depth  of  thy  humihation  ; 
For  dear  thou  art,  amidst  unconscious  ruin, — 
Dear  to  the  kindliest  feelings  of  my  soul, 
As  though  one  womb  had  borne  us,  and  one  motl 
At  her  sweet  breasts  had  nourish'd  us  as  twins." 

I  saw  him  sunk  in  loathsome  degradation, 
A  naked,  fierce,  ungovernable  savage. 
Companion  to  the  brutes,  himself  more  brutal ; 
Superior  only  in  the  craft  that  made 
The  serpent  subtlest  beast  of  all  the  field. 
Whose  guile  unparadised  the  world,  and  brought 
A  curse  upon  the  earth  which  God  had  blessed. 
That  curse  was  here,  without  the  mitigation 
Of  healthful  toil,  that  half  redeems  the  ground 
Whence  man  was  taken,  whither  he  returns, 
And  which  repays  him  bread  for  patient  labor, 
— Labor,  the  symbol  of  his  punishment, 
— Labor,  the  secret  of  his  happiness. 
The  curse  was  here ;  for  thorns  and  briers  o'errai 
The  tangled  lab}  rinths,  yet  briers  bare  roses. 
And  thorns  threw  out  their  annual  snow  of  blosson 
The  curse  w  as  here ;  and  yet  the  soil  untill'd 
Pour'd  forth  spontaneous  and  abundant  harvests, 
Pulse  and  small  berries,  maize  in  strong  luxurian 
And  slender  rice  that  grew  by  many  waters ; 

286 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


108 


'he  forests  cast  their  fruits,  in  husk  or  rind, 
ielding  sweet  kernels  or  delicious  pulp, 
mooth  oil,  cool  milk,  and  vuifermented  wine, 
1  rich  and  exquisite  variety, 
'n  these  the  indolent  inhabitants 
'ed  without  care  or  forethought,  like  the  swine 
'hat  grubb'd  the  turf,  and  taught  them  where  to  look 
!or  dainty  earth-nuts  and  nutritious  roots  ; 
T  the  small  monkeys,  capering  on  the  boughs, 
nd  rioting  on  nectar  and  ambrosia, 
'he  produce  of  Uiat  Paradise  run  wild : — 
j'o, — these  were  merry,  if  they  were  not  wise ; 
[/hile  man's  untutor'd  hordes  were  sour  and  sullen 
like  those  abhorr'd  baboons,  whose  gluttonous  taste 
i'hey  foUow'd  safely  in  their  choice  of  food  ; 
nd  whose  brute  semblance  of  humanity 
lade  them  more  hideous  than  their  prototypes, 
ihat  bore  the  genuine  image  and  inscription, 
efaced  indeed,  but  yet  indelible. 
-From  ravening  beasts,  and  fowls  that  fish'd  the 
j  ocean, 

[en  learn'd  to  prey  on  meaner  animals, 
ut  found  a  secret  out  which  birds  or  beasts, 
lost  cruel,  cunning,  treacherous,  never  knew, 
-The  luxury  of  devouring  one  another. 

Such  were  my  kindred  in  their  lost  estate, 
rom  whose  abominations  while  I  turn'd, 
s  from  a  pestilence,  I  mourn 'd  and  wept 
'ith  bitter  lamentation  o'er  their  ruin  ; 
mk  as  they  were  in  ignorance  of  all 
hat  raises  man  above  his  origin, 
nd  elevates  to  heaven  the  spirit  within  him, 
0  which  the  Almighty's  breath  gave  understanding. 

Large  was  their  stature,  and  their  frames  athletic; 
heir  skins  were  dark,  their  locks  like  eagles'  feathers; 
heir  features  terrible  ; — when  roused  to  wrath, 

evil  passions  lighten'd  tlu'ough  their  eyes, 
anvulsed  their  bosoms  like  possessing  fiends, 
nd  loosed  what  sets  on  fire  the  course  of  nature, 
The  tongue  of  malice,  set  on  fire  of  hell, 
"hich  then,  in  cataracts  of  horrid  sounds, 
iged  through  their  gnashing  teeth  and  foaniing  lips, 
aking  the  ear  to  tingle,  and  the  soul 
cken,  with  spasms  of  strange  revolting  horror, 

f  the  blood  changed  color  in  the  veins, 
'hile  hot  and  cold  it  ran  about  the  heart, 
[nd  red  to  pale  upon  the  cheek  it  show'd. 
pair  visages  at  rest  were  winter-clouds, 
x'd  gloom,  whence  sun  nor  shower  could  be  foretold: 
tit,  in  high  revelry,  when  full  of  prey, 
jinnibal  prey,  tremendous  was  their  laughter; 
heir  joy,  the  shock  of  earthquakes  overturning 
[ountains,  and  swamping  rivci-s  in  their  course  ; 
I*  subterranean  elements  embroil'd — 
find,  fire,  and  water,  till  the  cleft  volcano 
i  ves  to  their  devastating  fury  vent : 
lat  joy  was  lurking  hatred  in  disguise, 
pd  not  less  filal  in  its  last  excess. 
f\ey  danced, — like  whirlwinds  in  the  Libyan  waste, 
I'hen  the  dead  sand  starts  up  in  living  pillars, 
pat  mingle,  part,  and  cross,  then  burst  in  ruin 
|i  man  and  beast; — they  danced  to  shouts  and  screams, 
j'ums,  gongs,  and  horns,  their  deafening  din  inflicting 
ti  nerves  and  ears  enraptured  with  such  clangor; 
|ll  mirth  grew  raadne.ss,  and  the  feast  a  fray, 


That  left  the  field  strewn  with  unnatural  carnage 
To  furnish  out  a  more  unnatural  feast. 
And  lay  the  train  to  inflame  a  bloodier  fray. 

They  dwelt  in  dens  and  caverns  of  the  earth, 
Won  by  the  valiant  from  their  brute  possessors, 
And  held  in  hourly  peril  of  reprisals 
From  the  ferocious  brigands  of  the  woods, 
The  lioness,  benighted  with  her  whel))s. 
There  seeking  shelter  from  the  drencliing  storm 
Met  with  unseen  resistance  on  tlie  threshold, 
And  perish'd  ere  she  knew  by  wliat  she  fell ; 
Or,  finding  all  witliin  asleep,  surprised 
The  inmates  in  their  dreams,  from  which  no  more 
Her  deadly  vengeance  sufTer'd  them  to  wake. 
— On  open  plains  they  framed  low,  narrow  huts 
Of  boughs,  the  wreck  of  windfalls  or  of  Time, 
Wattled  with  canes,  and  thatch'd  with  reeds  and 

leaves ; 
There  from  afflictive  noon  sought  twilight  shadow 
Or  sluraber'd  in  the  smoke  of  green-wood  fires, 
To  drive  away  the  pestilent  rausketoes. 
— Some  built  unwieldy  nests  among  the  trees, 
In  which  to  doze  by  night,  or  watch  by  day 
The  joyful  moment,  from  that  ambuscade 
To  slay  the  passing  antelope,  or  wound 
The  jackall  chasing  it,  with  sudden  arrows 
From  bows  that  lask'd  a  giant's  strength  to  bend 
In  flight  or  combat,  on  the  champaign  field, 
They  ran  a  tilt  with  flinty-headed  spears  ; 
Or  lanch'd  the  lighter  javelin  through  the  air, 
Follow'd  its  motion  with  a  basilisk's  eye, 
And  shriek'd  with  gladness  when  a  life  was  spill'd 
They  sent  the  pebble  hissing  from  the  sling, 
Hot  as  the  curse  from  lips  that  would  strike  dead, 
If  words  were  stones ;  here  stones,  as  swift  as  words 
Can  reach  the  ear,  the  unweary  victim  smote. 
In  closer  conflict,  breast  to  breast,  when  one 
Or  both  must  perish  on  the  spot,  they  fought 
With  clubs  of  iron- wood  and  ponderous  force, 
Wielded  with  terrible  dexterity. 
And  falling  down  like  thunderbolts,  which  nought 
But  counter  thunderbolts  could  meet  or  parry. 
Rude-fashion'd  weapons  !  yet  the  lion's  jaws. 
The  tiger's  grasp,  the  eagle's  beak  and  talons. 
The  serpent's  fangs,  were  not  more  formidable, 
More  sure  to  hit,  or,  hitting,  sure  to  kill. 

They  knew  not  shame  nor  honor,  yet  knew  pride 
— The  pride  of  strength,  skill,  speed,  and  subtlety; 
The  pride  of  tyranny  and  violence. 
Not  o'er  the  mighty  only,  whom  their  arm 
Had  crush'd  in  battle,  or  had' basely  slain 
By  treacherous  ambush,  or  more  treacherous  smiles. 
Embracing  while  they  stabb'd  the  heart  that  met 
Their  specious  seeming  with  unguarded  breast: 
— The  reckless  savages  display'd  their  pride 
By  vile  oppression  in  its  vilest  forms, — 
Oppression  of  the  weak  and  innocent; 
Infancy,  womanhood,  old  age,  disease, 
The  lame,  the  half,  the  blind,  are  wrong'd,  neglecte<l 
Exposed  to  perish  by  wild  beasts  in  wfx)ds, 
Cast  to  crocodiles  in  rivers ;  murder'd. 
Even  by  their  dearest  kindred,  in  cold  blood, 
To  rid  themselves  of  Nature's  gracious  burthens 
In  mercy  laid  on  man  to  teach  him  mercy. 

287 


104 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  their  prime  glory  was  insane  debauch,  | 

To  inflict  and  bear  excruciating  tortures ; 
The  unshrinking  victim,  while  the  flesh  was  rent 
From  his  live  limbs,  and  eaten  in  his  presence, 
Still  in  his  death-pangs  taunted  his  tormentors 
With  tales  of  cruelty  more  diabolic, 
Wreak'd  by  himself  upon  the  friends  of  those 
Who  now  their  impotence  of  vengeance  wasted 
On  him,  and  drop  by  drop  his  life  extorted 
With  thorns  and  briers  of  the  wilderness. 
Or  the  slow  violence  of  untouching  fire. 

Vanity  too,  Pride's  mannikin,  here  play'd 
Satanic  tricks  to  ape  her  master-fiend. 
The  leopard's  beauteous  spoils,  the  lion's  mane, 
Engirt  the  loins,  and  waved  upon  the  shoulders 
Of  those  whose  wiles  or  arms  had  won  such  trophies: 
Rude-punctured  figures  of  all  loathsome  things, 
Toads,  scorpions,  asps,  snakes'  eyes  and  double  tongues, 
In  fragrant  colors  on  their  tattooed  limits, 
Gave  proof  of  intellect,  not  dead  but  sleeping, 
And  in  its  trance  enacting  strange  vagaries. 
Bracelets  of  human  teeth,  fangs  of  wild  beasts. 
The  jaws  of  sharks,  and  beaks  of  ravenous  birds, 
Glitter'd  and  tinkled  round  their  arms  and  ankles ; 
While  skulls  of  slaughter'd  enemies,  in  chains 
Of  natural  elf-locks,  dangled  from  the  necks 
Of  those,  whose  own  bare  skulls  and  cannibal  teeth 
Ere  long  must  deck  more  puissant  fiends  than  they. 

On  ocean,  too,  they  exercised  dominion; — 
Of  hollow  trees  composing  slight  canoes, 
They  paddled  o'er  the  reefs,  cut  through  the  breakers, 
And  rode  the  untamed  billows  far  from  shore; 
Amphibious  from  their  infancy,  and  fearing 
Nought  in  the  deepest  waters  save  the  shark : 
Even  him,  well  arm'd,  they  gloried  to  encounter, 
And  when  he  turn'd  to  ope  those  gates  of  death, 
That  led  into  the  Hades  of  his  gorge, 
Smote  with  such  stern  decision  to  his  vitals. 
And  vanish'd  through  the  blood-beclouded  waves. 
That,  blind  and  desperate  in  his  agony, 
Headlong  he  plunged,  and  perish'd  in  the  abyss. 

Woman  was  here  the  powerless  slave  of  man ; 
Thus  fallen  Adam  tramples  fallen  Eve, 
Through  all  the  generations  of  his  sons, 
In  whose  barbarian  veins  the  old  serpent's  venom 
Turns  pure  affection  into  hideous  lust. 
And  wrests  the  might  of  his  superior  arm 
(Given  to  defend  and  bless  his  meek  companion) 
Into  the  v'ery  yoke  and  scourge  of  bondage ; 
Till  limbs  by  beauty  moulded,  eyes  of  gladness, 
And  the  full  bosom  of  confiding  truth. 
Made  to  delight  and  comfort  him  in  toil. 
And  change  Care's  den  into  a  halcyon's  nest, 
-  -Are  broke  with  drudgery,  quench'd  with  stagnant 

tears. 
Or  wrung  with  lonely  nnimparted  woe. 
Man  is  beside  himself,  not  less  than  fall'n 
Below  his  dignity,  who  owns  not  woman 
As  nearer  to  his  heart  than  when  she  grew 
A  rib  within  him, — se  his  heart's  own  heart- 
He  slew  the  game  with  his  unerring  arrow. 
But  left  it  in  the  bush  for  her  to  drag 
Home,  with  her  feeble  hands,  already  burlhened 


With  a  young  infant  clinging  to  her  shoulders. 
Here  she  fell  down  in  travail  by  the  way, 
Her  piteous  groans  unheard,  or  heard  unanswer'd: 
There,  with  her  convoy,  she — mother,  and  child, 
And  slaughter'd  deer — became  some  wild  beast's  pre 
Though  spoils  so  rich  not  one  could  long  enjoy, — . 
Soon  the  woods  echoed  with  the  huge  uproar 
Of  savage  throats  contending  for  the  bodies. 
Till  not  a  bone  was  left  for  farther  quarrel. 

He  chose  the  spot ;  she  piled  the  wood,  she  wov 
The  supple  withes,  and  bound  the  thatch  that  form!! 
The  ground-built  cabin  or  the  tree-swung  nesL      '■ 
— He  brain'd  the  drowsy  panther  in  his  den. 
At  noon  o'ercome  by  heat,  and  with  closed  lids 
Fearing  assaults  from  none  but  vexing  flies. 
Which  with  his  ring-streak'd  tail  he  switch'd  awa 
The  citadel  thus  storm'd,  the  monster  slain,  j 

By  the  dread  prowess  of  his  daring  arm, 
She  roll'd  the  stones,  and  planted  the  stockade, 
To  fortify  the  garrison  for  him, 
Who  scornfully  look'd  on,  at  ease  reclined, 
Or  only  rose  to  beat  her  to  the  task. 

Yet,  'midst  the  gall  and  wormwood  of  her  lot, 
She  tasted  joys  which  none  but  woman  knows, 
— The  hopes,  fears,  feelings,  raptures  of  a  mothei 
Well-nigh  compensating  for  his  unkindness, 
Whom  yet  with  all  her  fervent  soul  she  loved. 
Dearer  to  her  than  all  the  universe. 
The  looks,  the  cries,  the  embraces  of  her  babes ; 
In  each  of  whom  she  lived  a  separate  life. 
And  felt  the  fountain,  whence  their  veins  were  fil' 
Flow  in  perpetual  union  with  the  streams, 
That  swell'd  their  pulses,  and  throbb'd  back  throi 

hers. 
Oh  !  't  was  benign  relief  when  my  vex'd  eye 
Could  turn  from  man,  the  sordid,  selfish  savage, 
And  gaze  on  woman  in  her  self-denial, 
To  him  and  to  their  offspring  all  alive,  i 

Dead  only  to  herself, — save  when  she  won  1 

His  unexpected  smile  ;  then,  she  look'd 
A  thousand  times  more  beautiful,  to  meet 
A  glance  of  aught  like  tenderness  from  him; 
And  sent  the  sunshine  of  her  happy  heart 
So  warm  into  the  charnel-house  of  his. 
That  Nature's  genuine  sympathies  awoke. 
And  he  almost  forgot  himself  in  her. 
O  man  !  lost  man  !  amidst  the  desolation 
Of  goodness  in  thy  soul,  there  yet  remains 
One  spark  of  Deity, — that  spark  is  love. 


CANTO  VIT. 


Ages  again,  with  silent  revolution,  .; 

Brought  morn  and  even,  noon  and  night,  with  al 
The  old  vicissitudes  of  Nature's  aspect :  • 

Rains  in  their  season  fertilized  the  ground. 
Winds  sow'd  the  seeds  of  every  kind  of  plant    ' 
On  its  peculiar  soil ;  while  sons  matured 
What  winds  had  sown,  and  rains  in  season  wate  , 
Providing  nourishment  for  all  that  lived  : 
Man's  generations  came  and  went  like  these, 
— The  grass  and  flowers  that  wither  where  they  sp  g, 
— The  brutes  that  perish  wholly  where  they  fal. 

288 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


105 


Thus  ^vhi'le  I  mused  on  these  in  long  succession, 
And  all  reniain'd  as  all  had  l)een  before, 
I  fried,  as  I  was  wont,  though  none  did  listen, 
_'Tis  sweet  sometimes  to  speak  and  be  the  hearer; 
For  he  is  twice  himself  who  can  converse 
With  his  own  thoughts,  as  with  a  living  throng 
3f  fellow-travellers  in  solitude  ; 
\nd  mine  too  long  had  been  my  sole  companions : 
— "  What  is  this  myster>'  of  human  life  ? 
M  rude  or  civilized  society, 
Alike,  a  pilgrim's  progress  through  this  world 
Fo  that  which  is  to  come,  by  the  same  stages ; 
vVith  infinite  diversity  of  fortune 
To  each  distinct  adventurer  by  the  way ! 

"  Life  is  the  transmigration  of  a  soul 
'rhrough  various  bodies,  various  states  of  being; 
.S'ew  manners,  passions,  tastes,  pursuits  in  each ; 
n  nothins,  save  in  consciousness,  the  same, 
nfancv,  adolescence,  manhood,  age, 
\re  alway  moving  onward,  alway  losing 
Ifhemselves  in  one  another,  lost  at  length, 
i^ike  undulations,  on  the  strand  of  death. 
The  sage  of  threescore  years  and  ten  looks  back, — 
Ivith  many  a  pang  of  lingering  tenderness, 
,Vnd  many  a  shuddering  conscience-fit, — on  what 
'le  hath  been,  is  not,  cannot  be  again ; 
j<ror  trembles  less  with  fear  and  hope,  to  think 
{vhat  he  is  now,  but  cannot  long  continue, 
lind  what  he  must  be  through  uncounted  ages. 
!-The  Child ; — we  know  no  more  of  happy  childhood, 
Than  happy  childhood  knows  of  wretched  eld ; 
Lnd  all  our  dreams  of  its  felicity 
ire  incoherent  as  its  own  crude  visions : 
iVe  but  begin  to  live  from  that  fine  pt^int 
iVTiich  memory  dwells  on.  with  the  moniing-star, 
i'he  earliest  note  we  heard  the  cuckoo  sing, 
;»r  the  first  daisy  that  we  ever  pluck'd, 
iVTien  thoughts  themselves  were  stars,  and  birds,  and 
j  flowers, 

fare  brilhance,  simplest  music,  wild  perfume, 
''henceforward,  mark  the  metamorphoftes  ! 
i-The  Boy,   the   Girl ; — when   all    was  joy,  hope, 
j  promise ; 

j'et  who  would  be  a  Boy,  a  Girl  airain, 
j'o  bear  the  yoke,  to  long  for  liberty, 
Lnd  dream  of  what  will  never  come  to  pass? 
-The  Youth,  the  INIaiden  ; — living  but  for  love, 
et  learning  soon  that  life  hath  other  cares, 
jid  joys  less  rapturous,  but  more  enduring: 

The  Woman  ; — in  her  ofifspring  multiplied  ; 
I  tree  of  life,  whose  glory  is  her  branches, 
feneath  whose  shadow,  she  (both  root  and  stem) 
iielights  to  dwell  in  meek  obscurity, 
j'hat  they  may  be  the  pleasure  of  beholders : 
I-The  Man  ; — as  father  of  a  progeny, 
i^^ose  birth  requires  his  death  to  make  them  room, 
i'el  in  whose  lives  ho  feels  his  resurrection, 
j.nd  grows  immortal  in  his  children's  children  : 
l-Then  the  grey  Elder ; — leaning  on  his  staff, 
Lnd  bow'd  beneath  a  weight  of  years,  that  steal 
fpon  him  with  the  secrecy  of  sleep, 
|Vo  snow  falls  lighter  than  the  snow  of  age, 
irone  with  such  subtlety  benumbs  the  frame), 
[HU  he  forgets  sensation,  and  lies  down 
»ead  in  the  lap  of  his  primeval  mother; 
'      37  Z 


She  throws  a  shroud  of  turf  and  flowers  around  him. 
Then  calls  the  worms,  and  bids  them  do  their  oflicc 
— Man  giveth  up  the  ghost, — and  where  is  He?" 

That  startling  question  broke  my  lucubration ; 
I  saw  those  changes  realized  before  me ; 
Saw  them  recurring  in  perpetual  line. 
The  line  unbroken,  while  the  thread  ran  on. 
Failing  at  this  extreme,  at  that  renevv'd, 
— Like  buds,  leaves,  blossoms,  fruits  on  herbs  and  trees, 
Like  mites,  flies,  reptiles;  birds,  and  beasts, and  lishes. 
Of  every  length  of  pieriod  here, — all  mortal, 
And  all  resolved  into  those  elements 
Whence  they  had  emanated,  whence  they  drew 
Their  sustenance,  and  which  their  wrecks  recruited 
To  generate  and  foster  other  forms 
As  like  themselves  as  were  the  lights  of  heaven, 
For  ever  moving  in  serene  succession, 
— Not  like  those  lights  unquenchable  by  time, 
But  ever  changing,  like  the  clouds  that  come. 
Who  can  tell  whence  ?  and  go,  who  can  tell  whither? 
Thus  the  swift  series  of  man's  race  elapsed. 
As  for  no  higher  destiny  created 
Than  aught  beneath  them, — from  the  elephant 
Down  to  the  worm,  thence  to  the  zoophyte. 
That  link  which  binds  Prometheus  to  his  rock, 
The  living  fibre  to  insensate  matter. 
They  were  not,  then  they  were ;  the  unborn,  the  living! 
Thev  were,  then  were  not :  they  had  lived  and  died ; 
No  trace,  no  record  of  their  date  remaining. 
Save  in  the  memory  of  kindred  beings. 
Themselves  as  surely  hastening  to  oblivion; 
Till,  where  the  soil  had  ^een  renew'd  by  relics, 
And  earth,  air,  water,  were  one  sepulchre. 
Earth,  air,  and  water,  might  be  search'd  in  vain. 
Atom  by  atom  scrutinized  with  eyes 
Of  microscopic  power,  that  could  discern 
The  population  of  a  dew-drop,  yet 
No  particle  betray  the  buried  secret 
Of  w  hat  they  had  been,  or  of  w  hat  they  were :     ' 
Life  thus  was  swallow'd  by  mortality. 
Mortality  thus  swallow'd  up  of  life, 
And  man  remain'd  the  world's  unmoved  possessor. 
Though,  every  moment,  men  appear'd  and  vanish'd. 

Oh  !  't  was  heart-sickness  to  behold  them  thus 
Perishing  without  knowledge  ; — perishing. 
As  though  they  were  but  things  of  dust  and  ashes. 
They  lived  unconscious  of  their  noblest  powers. 
As  were  the  rocks  and  mountains  which  they  trod 
Of  gold  and  jewels  hidden  in  their  bowels  ; 
They  lived  unconscious  of  what  lived  within  them 
The  dcath]e?s  spirit,  as  were  the  stars  that  shone 
Above  their  heads,  of  their  own  emanations. 
And  did  it  live  within  them  ?  did  there  dwell 
Fire  bro'ight  from  heaven  in  forms  of  miry  clay? 
Untemper'd  as  the  slime  of  Babel's  builders, 
And  left  unfinish'd  like  their  monstrous  work  ? 
To  me,  alas  !  they  seem'd  but  hving  bodies, 
With  still-bom  souls  which  never  could  be  quicken'd 
Till  death  brought  immortalitv  to  li2ht. 
And  from  the  darkness  of  their  earthly  prison 
Placed  them  at  once  before  the  bar  of  God ; 
Then  first  to  learn,  at  their  eternal  peril. 
The  fact  of  his  existence  and  their  own. 
Imagination  durst  not  follow  them. 
Nor  stand  one  moment  at  iliat  dread  Iribimal 

289 


106 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right?" 

I  trembled  while  I  spake.     I  could  not  bear 

The  doubt,  fear,  horror,  that  o'erhung  the  fate 

Of  millions,  millions,  millions, — living,  dying, 

Without  a  hope  to  hang  a  hope  upon, 

That  of  the  whole  it  might  not  be  affirm'd, 

— "  'T  were  better  that  they  never  had  been  born." 

I  turu'd  away,  and  look'd  for  consolation 

Where  Nature  else  had  shrunk  with  loathing  back, 

Or  imprecated  curses,  in  her  wrath, 

E  ven  on  the  fallen  creatures  of  my  race, 

O'er  whose  mysterious  doom  my  heart  was  breaking. 

I  saw  an  idiot  with  long  haggard  visage, 
And  eye  of  vacancy,  trolling  his  tongue 
From  cheek  to  cheek ;  then  muttering  syllables, 
Which  ail  the  learn'd  on  earth  could  not  interpret ; 
Yet  were  they  sounds  of  gladness,  tones  of  pleasure, 
Ineffable  tranquillity  expressing, 
Or  pure  and  buoyant  animal  delight; 
For  bright  the  sun  shone  round  him  ;  cool  the  breeze 
Play'd  in  the  floating  shadow  of  the  palm, 
Where  he  lay  rolling  in  voluptuous  sloth : 
And  he  had  fed  deliciously  on  fruit. 
That  fell  into  his  lap,  and  virgin  honey, 
That  melted  from  the  hollow  of  the  rock, 
Whither  the  hum  and  stir  of  bees  had  drawTi  him. 
He  knew  no  bliss  beside,  save  sleep  when  weary, 
Or  reveries  like  this,  when  broad  awake. 
Glimpses  of  thought  seem'd  flashing  through  his  brain, 
Like  wildlires  flitting  o'er  the  rank  morass, 
Snares  to  the  night-bewilder"d  traveller ! 
Gently  he  raised  his  head,  and  peep'd  around, 
As  if  he  ho|)ed  to  see  some  pleasant  object, 
— The  wingless  squirrel  jet  from  tree  to  tree, 
— The  monkey  pilfering  a  parrot's  nest. 
But,  ere  he  bore  the  precious  spoil  away, 
Surprised  behind  by  beaks,  and  wings,  and  claws, 
That  made  him  scamper  gibbering  away: 
— The  sly  opossum  dangle  by  her  tail, 
To  snap  the  silly  birds  that  perchd  too  near; 
Or  in  the  thicket,  with  her  young  at  play. 
Start  when  the  rustling  grass  announced  a  snake, 
And  secrete  them  within  her  second  womb, 
Then  stand  alert  to  give  the  intruder  battle. 
Who  rear'd  his  crest,  and  hiss'd,  and  glid  away: — 
— These  with  the  transport  of  a  child  he  vievv'd, 
Then  laugh'd  aloud,  and  crack'd  his  fingers,  smote 
His  palms,  and  clasp'd  his  knees,  convulsed  with  glee; 
A  sad,  sad  spectacle  of  merriment  I 
Yet  he  was  happy;  happy  in  this  life; 
And  could  I  doubt,  that  death  to  him  would  bring 
Intelligence,  which  he  had  ne'er  abused, 
A  soul,  which  he  had  never  lost  by  sin  ? 

I  saw  a  woman,  panting  from  her  throes, 
Stretch'd  in  a  lonely  cabin  on  the  ground, 
Pale  with  the  anguish  of  her  bitter  hour, 
Who>:e  sorrow  she  f()rgat  not  in  the  jo}'. 
Which  mothers  feel  \rhen  a  man-child  is  bom ; 
Hers  was  an  infant  of  her  own  scorn'd  sex : 
It  lay  upon  her  breast ; — -she  laid  it  there, 
By  the  same  instinct,  which  taught  it  to  find 
The  milky  fountain,  fill'd  to  meet  its  wants 
K\en  at  the  gate  of  life, — to  drink  and  live. 
Awhile  she  lay  all-passive  to  the  touch 


Of  those  small  fingers,  and  the  soft,  soft  lips 

Solicitiiig  the  sweet  nutrition  thence, 

While  yearning  sympathy  crept  round  her  heart 

She  felt  her  spirit  yielding  to  the  charm, 

That  wakes  the  parent  in  the  fellest  bosom, 

And  binds  her  to  her  little  one  for  ever. 

If  once  completed  ; — but  she  broke,  she  broke  it 

For  she  was  brooding  o'er  her  sex's  wrongs. 

And  seem'd  to  lie  amidst  a  nest  of  scorpions, 

That  stung  remorse  to  frenzy : — forth  she  sprang, 

And  with  collected  might  a  moment  stood, 

Mercy  and  misery  struggling  in  her  thoughts. 

Yet  both  impelling  her  to  one  dire  purpose. 

There  was  a  little  grave  already  made, 

But  two  spans  long,  in  the  turf-lloor  beside  her. 

By  him  who  was  the  father  of  that  child  : 

Thence  he  had  sallied,  when  the  work  was  done, 

To  hunt,  to  fish,  or  ramble  on  the  hills, 

Till  all  was  peace  again  within  that  dwelling, 

— His  haimt,  his  den,  his  anything  but  home ! 

Peace  ? — no,  till  the  new-comer  were  dispalch'd 

Whence  it  should  ne'er  return,  to  break  the  stupor 

Of  unawaken'd  conscience  in  himself 

She  pluck'd  the  baby  from  her  flowing  breast, 
And  o'er  its  mouth,  yet  moist  with  Nature's  beverag 
Bound  a  thick  lotus-leaf  to  still  its  cries; 
Then  laid  it  down  in  that  untimely  grave. 
As  tenderly  as  though  't  were  rock'd  to  sleep 
With  songs  of  love,  and  she  afraid  to  wake  it : 
Soon  as  she  felt  it  touch  the  ground,  she  started. 
Hurried  the  damp  earth  over  it ;  then  fell 
Flat  on  the  heaving  heap,  and  crush'd  it  down 
With  the  whole  burthen  of  her  grief;  exclaiming> 
"O  that  my  mother  had  done  so  to  me  I" 
Then  in  a  swoon  forgot,  a  little  while, 
Her  child,  her  sex,  her  tyrant,  and  herself. 

Amazement  wither'd  up  all  human  feeling : 
I  wonder"d  how  1  could  look  on  so  calmly. 
As  though  I  were  but  animated  stone. 
And  not  kneel  down  upon  the  spot,  and  pray 
That  earth  might  open  to  devour  that  mother. 
Or  heaven  shoot  lightning  to  avenge  that  daught» 
But  horror  soon  gave  way  to  hope  and  pity, 
— Hope  for  the  dead,  and  pity  for  the  living. 
Thenceforth  when  I  beheld  troops  of  wild  childrv 
Frolicking  around  the  tents  of  wickedness. 
Though  my  heart  danced  within  me  to  the  music 
Of  their  loud  \oices  and  unruly  mirth. 
The  blithe  exuberance  of  beginning  life  ! 
I  could  not  weep  when  they  went  out,  like  sparl 
That  glitter,  creep,  and  dwindle  out,  on  tinder 
Happy,  thrice  happy  were  they  thus  to  die. 
Rather  than  grow  into  such  men  and  women, 
— Such  fiends  incarnate  as  that  felon-sire. 
Who  dug  its  grave  before  his  child  was  born ; 
Such  miserable  wretches  as  that  mother. 
Whose  tender  mercies  were  so  deadly  cruel ! 


I  saw  their  infant's  spirit  rise  to  heaven, 
Caught  from  its  birth  up  to  the  throne  of  God , 
There,  thousands,  and  ten  thousands,  I  beheld. 
Of  innocents  like  this,  that  died  untimely. 
By  violence  of  their  unnatural  kin. 
Or  by  the  mercy  of  that  gracious  Power, 

290 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


107 


1/ho  gave  them  being,  taking  what  He  gave 

ire  they  could  sin  or  suffer  like  their  parents. 

saw  them  in  white  raiment,  crown'd  with  flowers, 

In  the  fair  banks  of  that  resplendent  river, 

/hose  streams  make  glad  the  cit}'  of  our  God ; 

i-Water  of  life,  as  clear  as  crystal,  welling 

orth  from  the  throne  itself  and  visiting 

ields  of  a  Paradise  that  ne'er  was  lost ; 

/'here  yet  the  tree  of  life  immortal  grows, 

ind  bears  its  monthly  fruits,  twelve  kinds  of  fruit, 

ach  in  its  season,  food  of  saints  and  angels  ; 

iin?e  leaves  are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

noath  the  shadow  of  its  blessed  boughs, 
mark'd  those  rescued  infants,  in  their  schools, 
y  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect,  taught 
:he  glorious  lessons  of  almighty  love, 
I'hich  brought  them  thither  by  the  readiest  path 
|rom  the  world's  wilderness  of  dire  temptations, 
bcuring  thus  their  everlasting  weal. 

Yea,  in  the  rapture  of  that  hour,  though  songs 
r  cherubim  to  golden  lyres  and  trumpets, 
nd  the  redeem'd  upon  the  sea  of  glass, 
'ith  voices  like  the  sound  of  many  waters, 
\me  on  mine  ear,  whose  secret  cells  were  open'd 

)  entertain  celestial  harmonies, 

-The  small,  sweet  accents  of  those  little  children, 

;;riiiii  out  all  the  gladness  of  their  souls, 

l"ve,  jov,  gratitude,  and  praise  to  Him, 
-Him,  who  had  loved  and  wash'd  them  in  his  blood ; 
liese  were  to  me  the  most  transporting  strains, 
midst  the  hallelujahs  of  all  Heaven. — 
pough  lost  awhile  in  that  amazing  chorus 
round  the  throne,  at  happy  intervals, 
jhe  .shrill  hosannas  of  the  infant  choir, 
nging  in  that  eternal  temple,  brought 
[ears  to  mine  eye,  which  seraphs  had  been  glad 
:)  weep,  could  they  have  felt  the  sympathy 
[hat  mehed  all  my  soul,  when  I  beheld 
[ow  condescending  Deity  thus  deign'd. 
It  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  here, 
b  perfect  his  high  praise : — the  harp  of  Heaven 
ad  lack'd  its  least  but  not  its  meanest  string, 
[ad  children  not  been  taught  to  play  upon  it, 
|nd  sing,  from  feelings  all  their  own,  what  men 
jor  angels  can  conceive  of  creatures,  born 
nder  the  curse,  yet  from  the  curse  redeem'd, 
nd  placed  at  once  beyond  the  power  to  fall, 
-Safety  which  men  nor  angels  ever  knew, 
ill  ranks  of  these  and  all  of  those  had  fallen. 


'  ! 


CANTO  VnL 


j  'T  WAS  but  the  vision  of  an  eye-glance  ;  gone 

ire  thought  could  fix  upon  it. — gone  like  lightning 

t  midnight,  when  the  expansive  flash  reveals 

,lp8,  Apennines,  and  Pyrenees,  in  one 

jlorious  horizon,  suddenly  lit  up, — 

Dcks,  rivers,  forests, — quench'd  as  suddenly: 

I  ghmpse  that  fiU'd  the  mind  with  images. 

iTiich  years  cannot  obliterate  ;  but  stamp'd 

filh  instantaneous  everlasting  force 

ii  memory's  more  than  adamantine  tablet : — 

I  glimpse  of  that  which  eye  hath  never  seen, 


Ear  heard,  nor  heart  of  man  conceived. — It  pass'd. 
But  what  it  show'd  can  never  pass. — It  pass'd, 
And  left  me  wandering  through  that  land  of  exile. 
Cut  off"  from  intercourse  with  happier  lands  ; 
Abandon'd,  as  it  seem'd,  by  its  Creator; 
Unvisited  by  Him,  who  came  from  Heaven 
To  seek  and  save  the  lost  of  every  clime  ; 
And  where  God,  looking  down  in  wrath,  had  said, 
"My  Spirit  shall  no  longer  strive  with  man:" 
— So  ignorance  or  unbehef  might  deem. 

Was  it  thus  outlaw'd  ?    No  :  God  left  himself 
Not  without  witness  of  his  presence  there ; 
He  gave  them  rain  from  heaven  and  fruitfid  soasong 
Filling  unthankful  hearts  with  food  and  gladness. 
He  gave  them  kind  aflJections  which  they  strangled, 
Turning  his  grace  into  lascivioiisness. 
He  gave  them  powers  of  intellect,  to  scale 
Heaven's  height;  to  name  and  number  all  the  stars; 
To  penetrate  earth's  depths  for  hidden  riches. 
Or  clothe  its  surface  with  fertility ; 
Amidst  the  haunts  of  dragons,  dens  of  satyrs, 
To  call  up  hamlets,  villages,  and  tov.ns. 
The  abode  of  peace  and  industry;  to  build 
Cities  and  palaces  amid  waste  places ; 
To  sound  the  ocean,  combat  with  the  winds, 
Travel  the  waves,  and  compass  every  shore. 
On  voyages  of  commerce  or  adventure ; 
To  shine  in  civil  and  refining  arts. 
With  tranquil  science  elevate  the  soul; 
To  explore  the  universe  of  mind ;  to  trace 
The  Nile  of  thinking  to  its  secret  source, 
And  thence  pursue  its  infinite  meanders, 
Not  lost  amidst  the  labyrinths  of  Time, 
But  o'er  the  cataract  of  Death  down-rolling. 
To  flow  for  ever  and  for  ever  and  for  ever 
^\Tiere  time  nor  space  can  limit  its  expansion. 

He  gave  the  ideal,  too,  of  truth  and  beauty ; 
To  look  on  Nature  with  a  poet's  eye. 
And  live,  amidst  the  daylight  of  this  world, 
In  regions  of  enchantment ; — with  the  force 
Of  song,  as  with  a  spirit,  to  possess 
The  souls  of  those  that  hearken,  till  they  feel 
But  what  the  minstrel  feels,  and  do  but  that 
Which  his  strange  inspiration  makes  them  do ; 
Thus  with  his  breath  to  kindle  war,  and  bring 
The  array  of  battle  to  electric  issue ; 
Or,  while  opposing  legions,  front  to  front, 
Wait  the  dread  signal  for  the  work  of  havoc, 
Step  in  between,  and  with  the  healing  voice 
Of  harmony  and  concord  win  them  so. 
That  hurling  down  their  weapons  of  destruction, 
They  rush  into  each  other's  arms,  with  shouts 
And  tears  of  f::ansport ;  till  inveterate  foes 
Are  friends  and  brethren,  feasting  on  the  field. 
Where  vultures  else  had  feasted,  and  gorged  wolve* 
Howl'd  in  convulsive  slumber  o'er  their  corses. 

Such  powers  to  these  were  given,  but  given  in  vain 
They  knew  them  not,  or,  as  they  learn'd  to  know, 
Perverted  them  to  more  peniicions  evil 
Than  ignorance  had  skill  to  perpetrate. 
Yet  the  great  Father  gave  a  richer  portion 
To  these,  the  most  impoverisird  of  his  children ; 
He  sent  the  light  that  lightelh  every  man 

291 


108 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  comes  into  the  world, — the  hght  of  truth : 

But  Satan  turn'd  that  light  to  darkness ;  turn'd 

God's  truth  into  a  lie,  and  they  believed 

His  lie,  wlio  led  them  captive  at  his  will, 

Usurp'd  the  throne  of  Deity  on  earth, 

And  claim'd  allegiance,  in  all  hideous  forms, 

— The  abominable  emblems  of  himself. 

The  legion-fiend,  who  takes  whatever  shape 

Man's  crazed  imagination  can  devise 

To  body  forth  his  notion  of  a  God, 

And  prove  how  low  immortal  minds  can  fall, 

When  from  the  living  God  they  fall,  to  serve 

Dumb  idols.  Thus  they  worshipp'd  stocks  and  stones, 

^Vl^ich  hands  unapt  for  sculpture  executed, 

In  their  egregious  folly,  like  themselves. 

Though  not  more  like,  even  in  barbarian  eyes, 

Than  antic  clouds  resemble  animals. 

To  these  they  offer 'd  flowers  and  fruits ;  to  those, 

Reptiles ;  to  others,  birds,  and  beasls,  and  fishes ; 

To  some  they  sacrificed  their  enemies. 

To  more  their  children,  and  themselves  to  all. 

So  had  tlie  god  of  this  apostate  world 
Blinded  their  eyes.     But  the  true  God  had  placed 
Yet  further  witness  of  his  grace  among  them. 
When  all  remembrance  of  himself  was  lost : 
— Knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  right  and  wrong. 
But  knowledge  was  confounded,  till  they  call'd 
Good  evil,  evil  good ;  refused  the  right. 
And  chose  and  loved  the  wrong  for  its  own  sake. 
One  witness  more,  his  own  ambassador 
On  earth,  the  Almighty  left  to  be  their  prophet. 
Whom  Satan  could  not  utterly  beguile, 
Nor  always  hold  with  his  ten  thou.^and  fetters, 
Lock'd  in  the  dungeon  of  the  obdurate  breast, 
And  trampled  down  by  all  its  atheist  inmates ; 
— Conscience,  tremendous  conscience,  in  his  fits 
Of  inspiration, — whensoe'er  it  came, — 
Rose  like  a  ghost,  inlliciing  fear  of  death. 
On  those  who  fear'd  not  death  in  fiercest  battle. 
And  mock'd  him  in  their  martyrdoms  of  torments : 
That  secret,  swift,  and  silent  messenger 
Broke  on  them  in  their  lonely  hours, — in  sleep, 
In  sickness ;  haunting  them  with  dire  suspicions 
or  .something  in  themselves  that  would  not  die, — 
Of  an  existence  elsewhere,  and  hereafter, 
Of  which  tradition  was  not  wholly  silent, 
Yet  spake  not  out;  its  dreary  oracles 
Confounded  superstition  to  conceive, 
And  batlled  scepticism  to  reject: 
— What  fear  of  death  is  hke  the  fear  beyond  it  ? 

But  pangs  like  these  were  lucid  intervals 
In  the  delirium  of  the  life  they  led. 
And  all  unwelcome  as  returning  reason, 
AVhich  through  the  chaos  of  a  maniac's  brain 
Shoots  gleams  of  light  more  terrible  than  darkness. 
These  sad  misgivings  of  the  smitten  heart. 
Wounded  unseen  by  conscience  from  its  ambush ; 
These  voices  from  eternity,  that  spake 
To  an  eternity  of  soul  within, — 
Were  quickly  lull'd  by  riotous  enjoyment. 
Or  lost  in  hurricanes  of  headlong  pa.ssion. 
They  knew  no  higher,  sought  no  happier  state  ; 
Had  no  fine  instinct  of  superior  joys 
Than  those  of  sense  ;  no  taste  for  sense  refined 
A  bove  the  gross  necessities  of  nature. 


Or  outraged  Nature's  most  unnatural  cravings. 
Why  should  they  toil  to  make  the  earth  bring  forth, 
When  without  toil  she  gave  them  all  they  wanted? 
The  bread-fruit  ripen'd,  while  they  lay  beneath 
Its  shadow  in  luxurious  indolence  ; 
The  cocoa  fill'd  its  nuts  wiih  milk  and  kernels, 
While  th«y  were  sauntering  on  the  shores  and  mour 

tains ; 
And  while  they  slumber'd  froHi  their  heavy  meals. 
In  dead  forgetfulness  of  life  itself, 
The  fish  were  spawning  in  unsounded  depths, 
The  birds  were  breeding  in  adjacent  trees. 
The  game  was  fattening  in  delicious  pastures, 
Unplanted  root.?  were  thriving  under  ground, 
To  spread  the  tables  of  their  future  banquets  I 

Thus  what  the  sires  had  been  the  sons  became, 
And  generations  rose,  continued,  went, 
\\'ithout  memorial, — like  the  Pelicans 
On  that  lone  island,  where  they  built  their  nests, 
Nourish'd  their  young,  and  then  lay  down  to  die* 
Hence  through  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  years, 
Man's  history,  in  that  region  of  oblivion. 
Might  be  recorded  in  a  page  as  small 
As  the  brief  legend  of  those  Pelicans, 
With  one  appalling,  one  sublime  distinction, 
(Sublime  with  horror,  with  despair  appalling), 
— That  Pelicans  were  not  transgressors ; — Man, 
Apostate  from  the  womb,  by  blood  a  traitor. 
Thus,  while  he  rose  by  dignity  of  birth. 
He  sunk  in  guilt  and  infamy  below 
Creatures  whose  being  was  but  lent,  not  given. 
And,  when  the  debt  was  due,  reclaim'd  for  ever 
O  enviable  lot  of  innocence  I 
Their  bliss  and  woe  were  only  of  this  world  : 
Wliate'er  their  lives  had  been,  though  born  to  sufu 
Not  less  than  to  enjoy,  their  end  was  peace. 
Man  was  immortal,  yet  he  lived  and  died 
As  though  there  were  no  life,  nor  death,  but  this; 
Alas!  what  life  or  death  may  be  hereafter. 
He  only  knows  who  hath  ordain'd  them  both ; 
And  they  shall  know  who  prove  their  truth  lor  eve 

The  thought  was  agony  beyond  endurance  ; 
"  O  thou,  my  brother  man  ! "  again  I  cried, 
"  Would  God,  that  I  might  live,  might  die  for  thee 
O  could  I  take  a  form  to  meet  thine  eyes. 
Invent  a  voice  with  words  to  reach  thine  ears ; 
Or  if  my  spirit  might  converse  with  thine. 
And  pour  my  thoughts,  fears,  feelings,  through  tl 

breast, 
Unknown  to  thee  whence  came  the  strange  intru.sioi 
How  would  my  soul  rejoice,  rejoice  wiih  treniblin 
To  tell  thee  ^^ho  thou  art,  and  bring  thee  home, 
— Poor  prodigal,  here  watching  swine,  and  fain 
To  glut  thy  hu.nger  with  the  husks  they  feed  on,- 
Home  to  our  Father's  house,  our  Father's  heart! 
Both,  both  are  open  to  receive  thee, — come  ; 
O  come  I — He  hears  not,  heeds  not, — O  my  brothw 
That  I  might  prophesy  to  thee, — to  all 
The  millions  of  drj-^  bones  that  fill  this  valley 
Of  darkne.^s  and  despair  I — Alas  !  alas ! 
Can  these  bones  live  ?    Lord  God,  Thou  knowest- 

Come 
From  tlie  four  v^^nds  of  heaven,  almighty  breath. 
Blow  on  these  slain,  and  they  shall  live." 

I 
292 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


109 


nd  turning  from  the  mournful  contemplation, 

0  seek  refreshment  for  my  weary  spirit, 
midst  that  peopled  continent,  the  abode 

f  misery  which  reached  beyond  this  world, 

lighted  on  a  solitary  glen 

ii  peaceful  refuge  in  a  land  of  discord) 

ro\\n'd  with  steep  rocks,  whose  hoary  summits  shone 

raid  the  blue  unclouded  element, 

er  the  green  woods,  that,  stretching  dowTi  the  hills, 

iidt'r'd  the  narrow  champaign  glade  between, 

hrough  which  a  clear  and  pebbly  rill  meander'd. 

he  song-birds  caroU'd  in  the  leafy  shades, 

hose  of  resplendent  plumage  flaunted  round ; 

igh  o"er  the  cliffs  the  sea-fowl  soar'd  or  perch'd ; 

he  Pelican  and  Albatros  were  seen 

1  groups  reposing  on  the  northern  ridge : 
here  was  entire  serenity  above, 

>auty,  tranquillity,  delight  below, 

nd  every  mot'on,  sound,  and  sight  were  pleasing. 

hinoceros  nor  wild  bull  pastured  here ; 

iou  nor  tiger  here  shed  innocent  blood ; 

he  antelopes  were  grazing  void  of  fear, 

lioir  young  in  antic  gambols  ramping  by; 

liile  goats,  from  precipice  to  precipice 
auiber'd,  or  hung,  or  vaulted  through  the  air, 
<  if  a  thought  convey'd  them  to  and  fro. 
armony  reign'd,  as  once  ere  man's  creation, 
heu  brutes  were  yet  earth's  sole  inhabitants. 
lere  were  no  human  tracks  nor  dwellings  there, 
)r   t  was  a  sanctuary  from  hurtful  creatures, 
id  in  the  precincts  of  that  happy  dell 
le  absence  of  my  species  was  a  mercy  : 
lence  the  declining  sun  withdrew  his  beams, 
It  lelt  it  lighted  by  a  hundred  peaks, 
ittering  and  golden,  round  the  span  of  sky, 
lat  seem'd  the  sapphire  roof  of  one  great  temple, 
ho-e  floor  was  emerald,  and  whose  walls  the  hills; 
here  those  that  worshipp'd  God,  might  worship  Him 

spirit  and  in  truth,  without  distraction. 

?\I:i.n's  absence  pleased  me ;  yet  on  man  alone, 

a.i  lallen,  helpless,  miserable  man, 

y   ilioughts,  prayers,   wishes,   tears,   and  sc-rrows 

turn'd, 
iwe'er  I  strove  to  drive  away  remembrance : 
leii  I  refrain'd  no  longer,  but  brake  out, 
■•^  Lord  God,  why  hast  Thou  made  all  men  in  vain  ? " 


C.^^TO  IX. 


TfiE  countenance  of  one  advanced  in  years, 

K'  shape  of  one  created  to  command, 

le  step  of  one  accustom'd  to  be  seen, 

id  follow'd  with  the  reverence  of  all  eyes, 

jet  conscious  here  of  utter  solitude, 

ime  on  me  like  an  apparition, — whence 

jinew  not, — half-way  down  the  vale  already 

;id  he  proceeded  ere  I  caught  his  eye, 

[id  in  that  mirror  of  intelligence, 

\r  the  sure  divination  of  mine  art, 

|?ad  the  mute  history  of  his  former  life, 

jid  all  the  untold  secrets  of  his  bosom. 

I  He  was  a  chieftain  of  renown ;  from  youth 
\t  green  old  age,  the  glory  of  his  tribe, 

Z2 


The  terror  of  their  enemies ;  in  war 

An  Alexander,  and  in  peace  an  Alfred. 

From  mom  till  night  he  wont  to  wield  the  spear 

With  indefatigable  arm,  or  watch 

From  eve  till  dawn  in  ambush  for  his  quarry, 

Human  or  brute ;  not  less  in  chase  than  fight. 

For  strength,  slull,  prowess,  enterprise  unrivall'd. 

Fearless  he  grappled  with  the  fell  hyena, 

And  held  him  strangling  in  the  grasp  of  fate ; 

He  seized  the  she-bear's  whelps^and  when  the  dan* 

With  miserable  cries  and  insane  rage 

Pursued  to  rescue  them,  would  turn  and  strike 

One  blow,  but  one,  to  break  her  heart  for  ever : 

From  sling  and  bow,  he  sent  upon  death-errands 

The  stone  or  arrow  through  the  trackless  air, 

To  overtake  the  fleetest  foot,  or  lay 

The  loftiest  pinion  fluttering  in  the  dust. 

On  the  rough  waves  he  eagerly  embark'd, 

Assail'd  the  stranded  whale  among  the  breakers. 

Dart  after  dart  with  such  sure  aim  implanting 

In  the  huge  carcass  of  the  helpless  victim. 

That  soon  in  blood  and  foam  the  monster  breathed 

His  last,  and  lay  a  hulk  upon  the  reef; 

Thence  floated  by  the  rising  tide,  and  tow'd 

By  a  whole  navy  of  canoes  ashore. 

But  't  was  the  hero's  mind  that  made  him  great 
His  eye,  his  lip,  his  hand,  were  clothed  with  thunder 
Thrones,  crowns,  and  sceptres  give  not  more  ascend 

ence, 
Back'd  with  arm'd  legions,  fortified  with  towers, 
Than  this  imperial  savage,  all  alone. 
From  JXature's  pure  beneficence  derived. 
Yet,  when  the  heyday  of  hot  youth  was  over. 
His  soul  grew  gentle  as  the  halcyon  breeze, 
Sent  from  the  evening-sea  to  bless  the  shore. 
After  the  fervors  of  a  tropic  noon , 
Nor  less  benign  his  influence  than  fresh  showers 
Upon  the  fainting  wilderness,  where  bands 
Of  pilgrims,  bound  for  Mecca,  with  their  camels,   ' 
Lie  down  to  die  together  in  despair. 
When  the  deceitful  mirage,  that  appear'd 
A  pool  of  water  trembling  in  the  sun. 
Hath  vanish'd  from  the  bloodshot  eye  of  thirst 
Firm  in  defence  as  valiant  in  the  battle. 
Assailing  none,  but  all  assaults  repelling 
With  such  determined  chastisement,  that  foes 
No  longer  dared  to  forage  on  his  borders. 
War  shrunk  from  his  dominions ;  simple  laws, 
Yet  wise  and  equitable,  he  ordained 
To  rule  a  willing  and  obedient  people. 
Blood  ceased  to  flow  in  sacrifice ;  no  more 
The  parents'  hands  were  raised  against  their  children- 
Children  no  longer  slew  their  aged  parents ; 
Man  prey'd  not  on  his  fellow-man,  witliin 
The  hallow'd  circle  of  his  patriarch-sway, 
That  seem'd,  amidst  barbarian  clans  around, 
A  garden  in  a  waste  of  brier  and  hemlock. 

Ere  life's  meridian,  thus  that  chief  had  reach  d 
The  utmost  pinnacle  of  savage  grandeur, 
And  stood  the  envy  of  ignoble  eyes. 
The  awe  of  humbler  mortals,  the  example 
Of  youth's  sublime  ambition  ;  but  to  him, 
It  w  a-s  not  given  to  rest  at  any  height , 
The  thoughts  that  travel  to  eternity 
Already  had  begun  their  pilgrimage, 

293 


110 


MONTGOMERY  S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  time,  nor  change,  nor  life,  nor  death,  could  slop. 

Ah  that  he  saw,  heard,  felt,  or  could  conceive, 

Open'd  new  scenes  of  mental  enterprise. 

Imposed  new  taslis  for  arduous  contemplation. 

On  the  steep  eminence  which  he  had  scaled, 

To  rise  or  fall  were  sole  alternatives ; 

He  might  not  stand,  and  he  disdain'd  to  fall ; 

Innate  magnificence  of  mind  upheld, 

And  buoyancy  of  genius  bore  him  on. 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  were  to  him  familiar 

In  all  their  motions,  aspects,  changes  ;  each 

To  him  paid  tribute  of  the  knowledge,  hid 

From  uninquiring  ignorance  ;  to  him 

Their  gradual  secrets,  though  with  slow  reserve. 

Yet  sure  accumulation,  all  reveal'd. 

But  whence  they  came,  even  more  than  what  they 
were, 
Awaken'd  wonder,  and  defied  conjecture ; 
Blank  wonder  could  not  satisfy  his  soul. 
And  resolute  conjecture  would  not  yield, 
Though  foil'd  a  thousand  times,  in  speculation 
On  themes  that  open'd  immortalitv. 
The  gods  whom  his  deluded  countrymen 
Acknowledged,  were  no  gods  to  him ;  he  scorn'd 
The  impotence  of  skill  that  carved  such  figures. 
And  pitied  the  fatuity  of  those, 
Who  saw  not  in  the  al^ortions  of  their  hands 
The  abortions  of  their  minds. — 'T  was  the  Creator 
He  souglit  through  every  volume  open  to  him. 
From  the  small  leaf  that  holds  an  insect's  web. 
From  which  ere  long  a  colony  shall  issue, 
With  wings  and  limbs  as  perfect  as  the  eagle's. 
To  the  stupendous  ocean,  that  gives  birth 
And  nourishment  to  everlasting  millions 
Of  creatures,  great  and  small,  beyond  the  power 
Of  man  to  comprehend  how  they  exist. 
One  thought  amidst  the  multitude  within  him 
Press'd  with  perpetual,  with  increasing  weight, 
And  yet  the  elastic  soul  beneath  its  burthen 
Wax'd  strong  and  stronger,  was  enlarged,  exalted, 
With  the  necessity  of  bearing  up 
Against  annihilation  ;  for  that  seem'd 
The  only  refuge  were  this  hope  foregone  : 
It  was  as  though  he  wrestled  with  an  angel, 
And  would  not  let  him  go  without  a  blessing, 
If  not  extort  the  secret  of  his  name  : 
This  was  that  thought,  that  hope ; — dumb  idols 
And  the  vain  homage  of  their  worshippers, 
W^ere  proofs  to  him,  not  less  than  sun  and  stars, 
That  there  were  beings  mightier  far  than  man, 
Or  man  had  never  dream'd  of  aught  above  hira : 
T  was  clear  to  him  as  was  his  own  existence. 
In  which  he  felt  the  fact  personified, 
That  man  himself  was  for  this  world  too  mighty. 
Possessing  ]X)wers  which  could  not  ripen  here. 
But  ask'd  infinity  to  bring  them  forth, 
And  find  employ  for  their  unbounded  scope. 

Tradition  told  him,  that,  in  ancient  time, 
Sky,  sun,  and  sea,  were  all  the  universe ; 
The  sun  grew  tired  of  gazing  on  the  sea. 
Day  after  day ;  then,  with  descending  beams. 
Day  after  day  he  pierced  the  dark  abyss, 
Till  he  had  reach'd  its  diamantine  floor ; 
Whence  he  drew  up  an  island,  as  a  tree 


Grows  in  the  desert  from  some  random  seed, 
Dropt  by  a  wild  bird.     Grain  by  grain  it  rose, 
And  touch'd  at  length  the  surfiice ;  there  expandine 
Beneath  the  fostering  influence  of  his  eye. 
Prolific  seasons,  light,  and  showers,  and  dew, 
Aided  by  earthquakes,  hurricanes,  volcanoes 
(All  agents  of  the  universal  sun). 
Conspired  to  form,  advance,  enrich,  and  break 
The  level  reef,  till  hills  and  da'es  appear'd, 
And  the  small  isle  became  a  continent, 
Whose  bounds  his  ancestors  had  never  traced. 
Thither  in  time,  by  means  inscrutable, 
Plants,  animals,  and  man  himself  were  brought; 
And  with  the  idolaters  the  gods  they  served. 
These  tales  tradition  told  him ;  he  believed. 
Though  all  were  fables,  yet  they  shadow'd  truth; 
That  truth  with  heart,  soul,  mmd,  and  strength  he 

sought. 

O  't  was  a  spectacle  for  angels,  bound 
On  embassies  of  mercy  to  this  earth, 
Po  gaze  on  with  compassion  and  delight, 
— Yea,  with  desire  thai  they  might  be  his  helpers,— 
To  see  a  dark  endungeon'd  spirit  roused, 
And  struggling  into  glorious  liberty. 
Though  Satan's  legions  watch'd  at  every  portal. 
And  held  him  by  ten  thousand  manacles  I 

Such  was  the  being  whom  I  here  descried, 
And  fix'd  my  earnest  expectation  on  him ; 
For  now  or  never  might  my  hope  be  proved, 
How  near,  by  searching,  man  might  find  out  God. 

Thus,  while  he  walk'd  along  that  peaceful  valley 
Though  rapt  in  meditation  far  above 
The  world  which  met  his  senses,  but  in  vain 
Would  charm  his  spirit  within  its  magic  circle, 
— Still  with  benign  and  meek  simphcity 
He  hearken'd  to  the  prattle  of  a  babe. 
Which  he  was  leading  by  the  hand  ;  but  scarce 
Could  he  restrain  its  eagerness  to  break 
Loose,  and  run  wild  with  joy  among  the  bushes. 
It  was  his  grandson,  now  the  only  stay 
Of  his  bereaved  affections  ;  all  his  kin 
Had  fall'n  before  him,  and  his  youngest  daughter 
Bequeathed  this  infant  with  her  dying  lips: 
"O  take  this  child,  my  father!  take  this  child. 
And  bring  it  up  for  me ;  so  may  it  live 
To  be  the  latest  blessing  of  thy  life." 
He  took  the  child  ;  he  brought  it  up  for  her ; 
It  was  the  latest  blessing  of  his  lite ; 
And  while  his  soul  explored  immensity. 
In  search  of  something  undefinedlv  great, 
This  infant  was  the  link  which  bound  that  soul 
To  this  poor  world,  where  he  had  not  a  wish 
Or  hope,  beyond  the  moment,  for  himself 

The  little  one  was  dancing  at  his  side. 
And  dragging  him  with  petty  ^"iolence 
Hither  and  thither  from  the  onward  path. 
To  find  a  bird's  nest  or  to  hunt  a  fly ; 
His  feign'd  resistance  and  unfeign'd  reluctance 
But  made  the  boy  more  resolute  to  rule 
The  grandsire  with  his  fond  caprice.    The  sage. 
Though  dallying  with  the  minion's  wayward  will, 
His  own  premeditated  course  pursued, 
And  while,  in  tones  of  sportive  tenderness, 
He  answer'd  all  its  questions,  and  ask'd  others 

294 


THE  PELICAN  ISLAND. 


Ill 


s  simple  as  its  own,  yet  wisely  framed 
'o  wake  and  prove  an  infant's  faculties  ; 
s  though  its  mind  were  some  sweet  instrument, 
'nd  he,  with  breath  and  touch,  were  finding  out 
^'hat  stops  or  keys  would  yield  the  richest  music ; 
-All  this  was  by-play  to  the  scene  within 
he  busy  theatre  of  his  own  breast, 
een  and  absorbing  thoughts  were  working  there, 
nd  his  heart  travail'd  with  unutter'd  pangs ; 
igh  after  sigh,  escaping  to  his  lips, 
/as  check'd,  or  turn'd  into  some  lively  word, 
'o  hide  the  bitter  conflict  from  his  child. 

At  length  they  struck  into  the  woods,  and  thence 
lirab'd  the  grey  rocks  aloof.    There  from  his  crag, 
t  their  abrupt  approach,  the  startled  eagle 
ook  wing  above  their  heads ;  the  boy,  alarm'd, 
-Xor  less  delighted  when  no  peril  came, — 
ollow'd  its  flight  with  eyes  and  hands  upraised, 
nd  bounding  forward  on  the  verdant  slope, 
ratch"d  it  diminish,  till  a  gnat,  that  cross'd 
:-  siirht,  eclipsed  it:  when  he  look'd  again 
"  \\  as  gone,  and  for  an  instant  he  felt  sad, 
ill  some  new  object  won  his  gay  attention. 
i>  grandshire  stepp'd  to  take  the  eagle's  stand, 
nd  gaze  at  freedom  on  the  boundless  prospect, 
at  started  back,  and  held  his  breath  with  awe, 
J  suddenly,  so  gloriously,  it  broke 
rom  heaven,  earth,  sea,  and  air,  at  once  upon  him. 
he  tranquil  ocean  roU'd  beneath  his  feet ; 
he  shores  on  each  hand  lessen'd  from  the  view  ; 
he  landscape  glow'd  with  tropical  luxuriance ; 
-kv  was  fleck'd  with  gold  and  crimson  clouds, 
-eem'd  to  emanate  from  nothing  there, 
..1  in  the  blue  and  infinite  expanse, 
'here  just  before  the  eye  might  seek  in  vain 
n  evening  shadow  as  a  daylight  star. 

There  stood  the  patriarch,  amidst  a  scene 
f  splendor  and  beatitude;  himself 
1  diadem  of  glory  o'er  the  whole, 
br  none  but  he  could  comprehend  the  beauty, 
jhe  bliss  diffused  throughout  the  universe ; 
et  holier  beauty,  higher  bli?s  he  sought, 
'iich  that  universe  was  but  the  veil, 
jht  with  inexplicable  hieroglyphics. 
<  re  then  he  stood,  alone  but  not  forsaken 
Him,  without  whose  leave  a  spam,  w  falls  not. 
ide  open  lay  the  Book  of  Deity, 
lie  page  was  Providence :  but  none,  alas  I 
•  I  taught  him  letters  ;  when  he  look'd,  he  wept 
■1  himself  forbidden  to  peruse  it. 
J  for  a  messenger  of  mercy  now, 
ke  Philip  when  he  join'd  the  Eunuch's  chariot ! 
I  for  the  privilege  to  burst  upon  him, 
nd  show  the  blind,  the  dead,  the  light  of  life ! " 

.  I  hush'd  the  exclamation,  for  he  seem'd 
lo  hear  it ;  turn'd  his  head,  and  look'd  all  round, 
(a  if  an  eye  invisible  beheld  him, 
I  voice  had  spoken  out  of  solitude  : 
f-Yea,  such  an  eye  beheld  him,  such  a  voice 
tad  spoken  ;  but  they  were  not  mine  ;  his  life 
je  would  have  yielded  on  the  spot,  to  see 
'hat  eye ;  to  hear  that  voice,  and  understand  it : 
was  the  eye  of  God,  the  voice  of  Nature. 


All  in  a  moment  on  his  knees  he  fell ; 

And  with  imploring  arras,  outstretch'd  to  heaven. 

And  eyes  no  longer  wet  with  hopeless  tears, 

But  beaming  forth  sublime  intelligence  ; 

In  words  through  which  his  heart's  pulsation  throbb'd. 

And  made  mine  tremble  to  their  accents, — pray'd : 

— "  Oh !  if  there  be  a  Power  above  all  power, 

A  Light  above  all  light,  a  ]\'ame  above 

All  other  names,  in  heaven  and  earth ;  that  Power, 

That  Light,  that  Name,  I  call  upon." — He  paused, 

Bow'd  his  hoar  head  with  reverence,  closed  his  eyes, 

And  with  clasp'd  hands  upon  his  breast,  began 

In  under-tones,  that  rose  in  fervency. 

Like  incense  kindled  on  a  holy  altar. 

Till  his  whole  soul  became  one  tongue  of  fire, 

Of  which  these  words  were  faint  and  poor  expressions: 

— "  Oh  !  if  Thou  art,  Thou  know'sl  that  I  am  : 

Behold  me,  hear  me,  pity  me,  despise  not 

The  prayer,  which — if  Thou  art — Thou  hast  inspired. 

Or  wherefore  seek  I  now  a  God  unknown  ? 

And  feel  for  Thee,  if  haply  I  may  find 

In  whom  I  live  and  move  and  have  my  being  ? 

Reveal  thyself  to  me ;  reveal  thy  power. 

Thy  light,  thy  name, — that  I  may  fear,  adore. 

Obey, — and,  oh !  that  I  might  love  Thee  too ! 

For,  if  Thou  art — it  must  be — Thou  art  good  ; 

And  I  would  be  the  creature  of  thy  goodness; 

Oh  I  hear  and  answer ; — let  me  know  Thou  hearest 

— Know  that  as  surely  as  thou  art,  so  surely 

My  prayer  and  supplication  are  accepted." 

j      He  waited  silently  ;  there  came  no  answer : 
The  roaring  of  the  tide  beneath,  the  gale 
Rustling  the  forest-leaves,  the  notes  of  birds. 
And  hum  of  insects, — these  were  all  the  sounds, 
That  met  familiarly  around  his  ear. 
He  look'd  abroad  ;  there  shone  no  light  from  heaven 
But  that  of  sun-set ;  and  no  shapes  appear'd 
But  glistering  clouds,  which  melted  through  the  sky 
As  imperceptibly  as  they  had  come ; 
While  all  terrestrial  objects  seem'd  the  same 
As  he  had  ever  known  them ; — still  he  look'd 
And  listen'd,  till  a  cold  sick  feeling  sunk 
Into  his  heart,  and  blighted  everj'  hope. 

Anon  faint  accents,  from  the  sloping  lawn 
Beneath  the  crag  where  he  was  kneeling,  rose, 
Like  supernatural  echoes  of  his  prayer : 
— "  A  name  above  all  names, — I  call  upon. — 
Thou  art — Thou  knowest  that  I  am  : — Reveal 
Thyself  to  me ; — but,  oh  !  that  I  may  love  Thee ! 
For  if  Thou  art.  Thou  must  be  good : — Oh !  hear, 
And  let  me  know  thou  hearest!" — IVIemorv-  fail'd 
The  child ;  for  't  was  his  grandchild,  though  he  knew 

not, 
— In  the  deep  transport  of  his  mind,  he  knew  not 
That  voice,  to  him  the  sweetest  of  ten  thousand, 
And  known  the  best,  because  the  best  beloved. 
Again  it  cried : — "  Thou  art — Thou  must  be  good  :- 

Oh!  hear. 
And  let  me  know  Thou  hearest." — !Memor\'  fail'd 
The  child,  but  feeling  fail'd  not ;  tears  of  light 
Slid  down  his  cheek ;  he  too  was  on  his  knees, 
Clasping  his  little  hands  upon  his  heart, 
Unconscious  whv,  yet  doing  what  he  saw 
His  grandsire  do,  and  saying  what  he  said. 

295 


112 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  while  he  gather'd  buds  and  flowers,  to  twine 
A  garland  for  the  old  grey  hairs,  whose  locks 
Were  lovelier  in  his  sight  than  all  the  blooms 
On  which  the  bees  and  butterflies  were  feasting, 
The  Patriarch's  agony  of  spirit  caught 
His  eye,  his  ear,  his  heart ;  he  dropt  the  flowers, 
And  kneeling  down  among  them,  wept  and  pray'd 
Like  him,  with  whom  he  felt  such  strange  emotions 
As  rapt  his  infant-soul  to  heavenly  heights  ; 
Though  whence  they  sprang,  and  what  they  meant, 

he  knew  not : 
*But  they  were  good,  and  that  was  all  to  him. 
Who  wonder'd  why  it  was  so  sweet  to  weep ; 
■^^  would  he  quit  his  humble  attitude. 
Nor  cease  repeating  fragments  of  that  lesson, 
Thus  learnt  spontaneously  from  lips  whose  words 
Were  almost  dearer  to  him  than  their  kisses, 
When  on  his  lap  the  old  man  dandled  him, 
And  told  him  simple  stories  of  his  mother. 

Recovering  thought,  the  venerable  sire 
Beheld,  and  recognized  his  darling  boy. 
Thus  beautiful  and  innocent,  engaged 
In  the  same  worship  with  himself    His  heart 
Leap'd  at  the  sight ;  he  flung  away  despondence. 
While  joy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory 
Broke  through  the  pagan  darkness  of  his  soul. 
He  ran  and  snatch'd  the  infant  in  his  arms. 
Embraced  him  passionately,  wept  aloud. 
And  cried,  scarce  knowing  what  he  said, — "  My  Son! 
My  Son  I  there  is  a  God  !  there  is  a  God  I " 
"  And,  oh  !  that  I  may  love  Thee  too  I  "  rejoin'd 
The  child,  whose  tongue  could  find  no  other  words 
Than  prayer: — "  for  if  Thou  art,  Thou  must  be  good." 
— "  He  is  !  He  is  !  and  we  will  love  Him  too  I 
Yea,  and  be  like  Him, — good,  for  He  is  good  I " 
Replied  the  ancient  father  in  amazement. 

Then  wept  they  o'er  each  other,  till  the  child 
Exceeded,  and  the  old  man's  heart  reproved  him 
For  lack  of  reverence  in  the  excess  of  joy  : 
The  ground  itself  seem'd  holy !  heaven  and  earth 
Full  of  the  presence,  felt,  not  seen,  of  Him, 
The  Power  above  all  power,  the  Light  above 
All  light,  the  Name  above  all  other  names ; 
Whom  he  had  call'd  upon,  whom  he  had  found. 
Yet  wnrshipp'd  only  as  "  the  Unknown  God," — 
That  nearest  step  which  uninstructed  man 
Can  take,  from  Nature  up  to  Deity, 
To  Him  again,  standing  erect,  he  pray'd. 
And  while  he  pray'd,  high  in  his  arms  he  held 
That  dearest  treasure  of  his  heart,  the  child 
Of  his  last  dying  daughter, — now  the  sole 
Hope  of  his  life,  and  orphan  of  his  house. 
He  held  him  as  an  oflTering  up  to  heaven, 
A  living  sacrifice  unto  the  God 
Whom   he   invoked  : — "  Oh  I  Thou  w  ho    art ! "    he 

cried, 
"  And  hast  reveal'd  that  mystery  to  me. 
Hid  from  all  generations  of  my  fathers, 
Or,  if  once  known,  forgotten  and  perverted ; 
I  may  not  live  to  learn  Thee  better  here ; 
But,  oh !  let  this  my  son,  mine  only  son, 
\Vhom  thus  I  dedicate  to  Thee  ; — let  him, 
I^et  iiim  be  taught  thy  will,  and  choose 
Obedience  to  it : — may  he  fear  thy  power. 
Walk  in  thy  light,  now  dawning  out  of  darkness 


And,  oh  !  my  last,  last  prayer, — to  him  reveal 

The  utterabie  secret  of  thy  name  I " 

He  paused ;  then  with  the  transport  of  a  seer 

Went  on:  "That  Name  may  all  my  nation  know 

And  all  that  hear  it  worship  at  the  sound. 

When  thou  shalt  with  a  voice  from  heaven  proclaim  it. 

And  so  it  surely  shall  be." 

"  For  thou  art  ; 
And  if  Thou  art.  Thou  must  be  good ! "  exclaim'd 
The  child,  yet  panting  with  the  breath  of  prayer. 

They  ceased ;  then  went  rejoicing  down  the  moun- 
tains, 
Through  the  cool  glen  where  not  a  sound  was  heard. 
Amidst  the  dark  solemnity  of  eve. 
But  the  loud  purling  of  the  little  brook, 
And  the  low  murmur  of  the  distant  ocean. 
Thence  to  their  home  beyond  the  hills  in  peace 
They  walk'd  ;  and  when  they  reach'd  their  humble 

threshold, 

The  glittering  firmament  was  full  of  stars. 
— He  died  that  night:  his  grandchild  Hved  to  see 
The  Patriarch's  prayer  and  prophecy  fulfiU'd. 

Here  end  my  song ;  here  ended  not  the  vision . 
T  heard  seven  thunders  uttering  their  voices, 
And  wrote  w  hat  they  did  utter  ;  but  't  is  seal'd 
Within  the  volume  of  my  heart,  where  thoughts. 
Unbodied  yet  in  vocal  \Aords,  await 
The  quickening  warmth  of  poesy,  to  bring 
Their  form  to  light, — like  secret  characters, 
Invisible  till  open'd  to  the  fire ; 
Or  like  the  potter's  paintings,  colorless 
Till  they  have  pass'd  to  glory  through  the  flames 
Changes  more  wonderful  than  those  gone  by, 
More  beautiful,  Iransporting,  and  sublime, 
To  all  the  frail  afleclions  of  our  nature. 
To  all  the  immortal  faculties  of  man; 
Such  changes  did  I  witness ;  not  alone 
In  one  poor  Pelican  Island,  nor  on  one 
Barbarian  continent,  where  man  himself 
Could  scarcely  soar  above  the  Pelican : 
— The  world  as  it  hath  been  in  ages  past. 
The  world  as  now  it  is,  the  world  to  come. 
Far  as  the  eye  of  prophecy  can  pierce  ; 
These  I  beheld,  and  still  in  memory's  rolls 
Thev  have  their  pages  and  their  pictures ;  these, 
Another  day,  a  nobler  song  may  show. 

Vain  boast !  another  day  may  not  be  given  ; 
This  song  may  be  my  last ;  for  I  have  reach'd 
That  slippen,'  descent,  whence  man  looks  back 
With  melancholy  joy  on  all  he  cherish'd : 
Around,  with  love  unfeign'd,  on  all  he 's  losing , 
Forward,  with  hope  that  trembles  while  it  tiims 
To  the  dim  point  where  all  our  knowledge  ends. 
I  am  but  one  among  the  living ;  one 
Among  the  dead  1  soon  shall  be ;  and  one 
Among  unnumber'd  millions  yet  unborn  ; 
The  sum  of  Adam's  mortal  progeny. 
From  Nature's  birth-day  to  her  dissolution  . 
— Lost  in  infinitude,  my  atom-hfe 
Seems  but  a  sparkle  of  the  smallest  star 
Amidst  the  scintillations  of  ten  thousand 
Twinkling  incessantly  :  no  ray  returning 
To  shine  a  second  moment,  where  it  shone 
Once,  and  no  more  for  ever : — so  I  pass. 

296 


PRISON  AMUSEMENTS. 


113 


rhe  world  grows  darker,  lonelier,  and  more  silent, 

As  I  go  down  into  the  vale  of  years  ; 

For  the  grave's  shadows  lengthen  in  advance, 

And  the  grave's  loneliness  appals  my  sjjirit. 

And  the  grave's  silence  sinks  into  my  heart, 

Till  I  forget  existence  in  the  thought 

Of  non-existence,  buried  for  a  while 

In  the  still  sepulchre  of  my  own  mind, 

Itself  imperishable  : — ah !  that  word, 

Like  the  archangel's  trumpet,  wakes  me  up 

To  deathless  resurrection.     Heaven  and  earth 

Shall  pass  away,  but  that  which  thinlis  within  me 


Must  think  for  ever  ;  that  which  feels  must  feel : 
— I  am,  and  I  can  never  cease  to  be. 

O  thou  ihat  readest!  take  this  parable 
Home  to  thy  bosom ;  think  as  I  have  thought, 
And  feel  as  I  have  felt,  through  all  the  changes. 
Which  Time,  Life,  Death,  the  world's  great  actors, 

wrought. 
While  centuries  swept  like  morning  dreams  before  me. 
And  thou  shalt  find  this  moral  to  my  song : 
— Thou  art,  and  thou  canst  never  cease  to  be : 
W^hat  then  are  time,  hfe,  death,  the  world,  to  thee  ? 
I  may  not  answer  :  ask  Eternity. 


WRITTEN  DURING  NINE  MONTHS  OF  CONFINEMENT  IN  THE  CASTLE  OF  YORK, 
IN  THE  YEARS  1795  AND  1796. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


These  pieces  were  composed  in  bitter  moments, 
amid  the  horrors  of  a  gaol,  under  the  pressure  of 
eickness. — They  were  the  transcripts  of  melancholy 
feelings, — the  warm  effusions  of  a  bleeding  heart. 
The  writer  amused  his  imagination  with  attiring  his 
sorrows  in  verse,  that,  under  the  romantic  appearance 
of  fiction,  he  might  sometimes  forget  that  his  misfor- 
tunes were  real. 

The  reader  may  be  curious  to  be  informed  of  the 
circumstances  to  which  these  trifles  owe  their  exist- 
ence. Suffice  it  to  say,  the  writer  is  very  young,  and 
has  been  very  unfortunate.  Twice,  in  the  course  of 
twelve  months,  he  was  sentenced  to  the  penalties  of 
fine  and  imprisonment  for  imputed  offences  :  In  Jan- 
uar}',  1795,  and  again  in  Januar}%  1796;  the  first  time 
— a  fine  of  twenty  pounds,  and  three  months'  con- 
finement :  the  second — six  months'  confinement,  and 
a  fine  of  thirty  pounds. 

In  behalf  of  these  the  forbearance  of  criticism  may 
be  sohcited,  without  degradation  to  the  Author. 


PRISON  AMUSEMENTS. 


VERSES  TO  A  ROBIN  RED-BREAST, 
WHO  VISITS  THE  WINDOW  OF  MY  PRISON  EVERY  DAY, 

Welcome,  pretty  little  stranger ! 

Welcome  to  my  lone  retreat ! 

Here,  secure  from  every  danger. 

Hop  about,  and  chirp,  and  eat. 

Robin  !  how  I  envy  thee, 

Happy  child  of  Liberty. 

Now,  though  tyrant  Winter,  howling. 

Shakes  the  world  with  tempests  round, 
Heaven  above  with  vapors  scowling. 
Frost  imprisons  all  the  ground  ; — 
Robin !  what  are  these  to  thee  ? 
Thou  art  blest  with  liberty. 
38 


Though  yon  fair  rrtajestic  river  ' 

Mourns  in  solid  icy  chains ; 
Though  yon  flocks  and  cattle  shiver 
On  the  desolated  plains  ; — 
Robin!  thou  art  gay  and  free, 
Happy  in  thy  liberty. 

Hunger  never  shall  distress  thee. 

While  my  cates  one  crumb  afford  ; 
Colds  nor  cramps  shall  e'er  oppress  thee 
Come  and  share  my  humble  board. 
Robin !  come  and  live  with  me, 
Live — yet  still  at  liberty. 

Soon  shall  Spring,  in  smiles  and  blushes, 

Steal  upon  the  blooming  year  ; 
Then,  amid  the  enamour'd  bushes. 
Thy  sweet  song  shall  warble  clear ; 
Then  shall  1  too,  join'd  with  thee, 
Swell  the  Hymn  of  Liberty. 

Should  some  rough  unfeeling  Dobbin, 

In  this  iron-hearted  age. 
Seize  thee  on  thy  nest,  my  Robin ! 
And  confine  thee  in  a  cage, 

Then,  poor  pris'nerl  think  of  mo, 
Think — and  sigh  for  Liberty. 
Feh.  2,  1795. 


MOONLIGHT. 

Gextle  Moon  I  a  captive  calls  ; 

Gentle  Moon  !  awake,  arise  ; 
Gild  the  prison's  sullen  walls  ; 

Gild  the  tears  that  drown  his  eyes. 

Throw  thy  veil  of  clouds  aside  ; 

Let  those  smiles  that  light  the  pole 
Throtigh  the  liquid  ether  glide, — 

Glide  into  the  mourner's  soul. 

Cheer  his  melancholy  mind  ; 

Soothe  his  sorrows,  heal  his  smart : 
Let  thine  influence,  pure,  refined. 

Cool  the  fever  of  his  heart. 


297 


114 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Chase  despondency  and  care, 

Fiends  that  haunt  the  guilty  breast ; 
Conscious  virtue  braves  despair, 

Triumphs  most  when  most  oppress'd. 

Now  I  feel  thy  power  benign 
Swell  my  bosom,  thrill  my  veins ; 

As  thy  beams  the  brightest  shine, 
When  the  deepest  midnight  reigns. 

Say,  fair  shepherdess  of  night ! 

Who  thy  starry  flock  dost  lead 
Unto  rills  of  living  light, 

On  the  blue  ethereal  mead  ; 

At  this  moment,  dost  thou  see, 

From  thine  elevated  sphere, 
One  kind  friend  who  thinks  of  me, — 

Thinks,  and  drops  a  feeling  tear  ? 

On  a  brilliant  beam  convey 
This  soft  whisper  to  his  breast : 

"  Wipe  that  generous  drop  away, 
He  for  whom  it  falls  is  blest : 

"  Blest  with  Freedom  unconfined  ; 

Dungeons  cannot  hold  the  Soul : 
Who  can  chain  the  immortal  Mind  ? 

— None  but  He  who  spans  the  pole." 

Fancy,  too,  the  nimble  {airy. 

With  her  subtle  magic  spell, 
In  romantic  visions  airy 

Steals  the  captive  from  his  cell. 

On  her  moonlight  pinions  borne, 
Far  he  flies  from  grief  and  pain ; 

Never,  never  to  be  torn 

From  his  friends  and  home  again. 

Stay,  thou  dear  delusion !  stay  ; 

Beauteous  bubble!  do  not  break : 
— Ah!  the  pageant  flits  away  ; 

Who  from  such  a  dream  would  wake  ? 
March  7,  1795. 


THE  CAPTIVE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Nocturnal  Silence  reigning, 

A  Nightingale  began. 
In  his  cold  cage  complaining 

Of  cruel-hearted  Man  ; 
His  drooping  pinions  shiverd, 

Like  wither'd  moss  so  dry ; 
His  heart  with  anguish  quiver'd, 

And  sorrow  dimm'd  his  eye. 

His  grief  in  soothing  slumbers 

No  balmy  power  could  steep  ; 
So  sweetly  flow'd  his  numbers. 

The  music  seem'd  to  weep. 
Unfeeling  Sons  of  Folly! 

To  you  tlie  Mourner  sung ; 
While  tender  melancholy 

Inspired  his  plaintive  tongue. 


"  Now  reigns  the  moon  in  splendor 

Amid  the  heaven  serene  ; 
A  thousand  stars  attend  her, 

And  glitter  round  their  queen  : 
Sweet  hours  of  inspiration ! 

When  I,  the  still  night  long, 
Was  wont  to  pour  my  passion. 

And  breathe  my  soul  in  Song. 

"  But  now,  delicious  seasor  ! 

In  vain  thy  charms  invite  : 
Entomb'd  in  this  dire  prison, 

I  sicken  at  the  sight. 
This  morn,  this  vernal  morning, 

The  happiest  bird  was  I, 
That  hail'd  the  sun  returning, 

Or  swam  the  liquid  sky. 

"  In  yonder  breezy  bowers, 

Among  the  foliage  green, 
I  spent  my  tuneful  hours, 

In  solitude  serene  : 
There  soft  ISlelodia's  beauty 

First  fired  my  ravish'd  eye  ; 
I  vow'd  eternal  duty  ; 

She  look'd — half  kind,  half  shy ! 

"  My  plumes  with  ardor  trembling, 

I  flutter'd,  sigh'd,  and  sung; 
The  fair  one,  still  dissembling. 

Refused  to  trust  my  tongue  : 
A  thousand  tricks  inventing, 

A  thousand  arts  I  tried. 
Till  the  sweet  nymph,  relenting, 

Confess'd  herself  my  bride. 

"  Deep  in  the  grove  retiring, 

To  choose  our  secret  seat. 
We  found  an  oak  aspiring. 

Beneath  whose  mossy  feet, 
W^here  the  tall  herbage  swelling 

Had  form'd  a  green  alcove. 
We  built  our  humble  dwelling 

And  hallow'd  it  with  love. 

"  Sweet  scene  of  vanish'd  pleasure  ! 

This  day,  this  fatal  day. 
My  little  ones,  my  treasure. 

My  spouse,  were  stolen  away ! 
I  saw  the  precious  plunder. 

All  in  a  napkin  bound  ; 
Then,  smit  with  human  thunder, 

I  flutter'd  on  the  ground  ! 

"  O  Man  !  beneath  whose  vengeance 

All  Nature  bleeding  lies ! 
W'ho  charged  thine  impious  engines 

With  lightning  from  the  skies  ? 
Ah !  is  thy  bosom  iron  ? 

Does  it  thine  heart  enchain  ? 
As  these  cold  bars  environ. 

And,  captive,  me  detain  ' 

"  Wliere  are  my  offspring  tender  ? 

Where  is  my  widow'd  mate  ? 
— Thou  Guardian  Moon!  defend  her! 

Ye  stars!  avert  their  fate! 

2L'8 


PRISON  AMUSEMENTS. 


lib 


O'erwhelm'd  with  killing  anguish, 

Here  reside  no  furies  gaunt, 

In  iron  cage,  forlorn, 

No  tumultuous  passions  haunt  ; 

I  see  my  poor  babes  languish  • 

Fell  revenge,  nor  treachery  base  ; 

I  hear  their  mother  mourn ! 

Guilt,  with  bold  unblushing  face  ; 

Pale  remorse,  within  whose  breast 

*'  0  Liberty !  inspire  me, 

Scorpion  horrors  murder  rest  ; 

And  eagle  strength  supply ! 

Coward  malice,  hatred  dire  ; 

Thou,  Love  almighty!  fire  me! 

Lawless  rapine,  dark  desire  ; 

I  '11  burst  my  prison — or  die ! " 

Pining  envy,  frantic  ire  ; 

He  sung  ;  and  forward  bounded  : 

Never,  never  dare  intrude 

He  broke  the  yielding  door ! 

On  this  pensive  solitude. 

But,  with  the  shock  confounded, 

— But  a  sorely  hunted  deer 

Fell,  lifeless,  on  the  floor ! 

Finds  a  sad  asylum  here  : 

Farewell,  then,  Philomela  : 

One,  whose  panting  sides  have  been 

Poor  martj'r'd  bird!  adieu! 
There 's  one,  my  charming  fellow . 

Who  thinks,  who  feels,  like  you 
The  bard  that  pens  thy  story, 

Amidst  a  prison's  gloom. 
Sighs, — not  for  wealth  nor  glory, 

— But  freedom,  or  thy  tomb ! 

Pierced  with  many  an  arrow  keen ; 
One,  whose  deeply-wounded  heart 
Bears  the  scars  of  many  a  dart. 
In  the  herd  he  vainly  mingled ; 
From  the  herd  when  harshly  singled. 
Too  proud  to  fly,  he  scorn'd  to  yield  ; 
Too  weak  to  fight,  he  lost  the  field : 
Assail'd,  and  captive  led  away. 

Feb.  12,  1796. 

He  fell,  a  poor  inglorious  prey. 

Deign  then,  gentle  Star !  to  shed 

Thy  soft  lustre  round  mine  head ; 

ODE  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

With  cheering  radiance  gild  the  room, 

Hail!  resplendent  Evening  Star ! 
Brightly  beaming  from  afar ; 
Fairest  gem,  of  purest  light. 
In  the  diadem  of  night. 

And  melt  the  melancholy  gloom. 
When  I  see  thee,  from  thy  sphere, 
Trembling  like  a  brilliant  tear, 
Shed  a  sympathizing  ray 
On  the  pale  expiring  day. 

Now  thy  mild  and  modest  ray 

Then  a  welcome  emanation 

Lights  to  rest  the  weary  day ; 

Of  reviving  consolation, 

While  the  lustre  of  thine  eye 

Swifter  than  the  lightning's  dart, 

Sweetly  trembles  through  the  sky  ; 

Glances  through  my  glowing  heart ; 
Soothes  my  sorrows,  lulls  my  woes, 

As  the  closing  shadows  roll 

Deep  and  deeper  round  the  pole. 

In  a  soft,  serene  repose, 

Lo !  thy  kindling  legions  bright 

Like  the  undulating  motion 

Steal  insensibly  to  light. 

Of  the  deep,  majestic  ocean. 

Till,  magnificent  and  clear, 

When  the  whispering  billows  glide 

Shines  the  spangled  hemisphere. 

Smooth  along  the  tranquil  tide ; 

Calmly  thus,  prepared,  resign'd, 

In  these  calmly-pleasing  hours, 

Swells  the  independent  mind. 

When  the  soul  expands  her  powers, 

And,  on  wings  of  contemplation, 

But  when,  through  clouds,  thy  beauteous  bght 

Ranges  round  the  vast  creation  ; 

Streams,  in  splendor,  on  the  night, 

When  the  mind's  immortal  eye 

Hope,  like  thee,  my  leading  star. 

Bounds,  with  rapture,  to  the  sky, 

Through  the  sullen  gloom  of  care, 

And,  in  one  triumphant  glance. 

Sheds  an  animating  ray 

Comprehends  the  wide  expanse, 

On  the  dark,  bewildering  way. 

Where  stars,  and  suns,  and  systems  shine, 

Starting,  then,  with  sweet  surprise, 

Faint  beams  of  majesty  divine  ; — 

Tears  of  transport  swell  mine  eyes  ; 

Now,  when  visionary  sleep 

Wildly  through  each  throbbing  vein. 

Lulls  the  world  in  slumbers  deep  ; 

Rapture  thrills  with  pleasing  pain  ; 

When  silence,  awfully  profound. 

All  my  fretful  fears  are  banish'd. 

Breathes  solemn  inspiration  round ; 

All  my  dreams  of  anguish  vanish'd  : 

Queen  of  beauty!  queen  of  stars! 

Energy  my  soul  inspires. 

Smile  upon  these  frowning  bars  : 

And  wakes  the  muse's  hallow'd  fires  ; 

Softly  sliding  from  thy  sphere, 

Rich  in  melody,  my  tongue 

Condescend  to  visit  here. 

Warbles  forth  spontaneous  song. 

In  the  circle  of  this  cell 

Thus  my  prison  moments  gay, 

No  tormenting  demons  dwell; 

Swiftly,  sweetly,  glide  away; 

Round  these  walls,  in  wild  despair, 

Till  the  last  long  day  declining, 

No  agonizing  spectres  glare : 

O'er  von  tower  thy  glory  shining, 

299 


116 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shall  the  welcome  signal  be 
Of  to-morrow's  liberty ! 
Liberty,  triumphant  borne 
On  the  rosy  wings  of  morn, 
Liberty  shall  then  return ! 

Rise,  to  set  the  captive  free- 
Rise,  O  Sun  of  Liberty ! 

Feb.  29,  1796. 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A  WATER-WAGTAIL, 

ON    THE    WALLS    OF    YORK   CASTLE. 

On  the  walls  that  guard  my  prison, 

Swelling  with  fantastic  pride. 
Brisk  and  merry  as  the  season, 

I  a  feather'd  coxcomb  spied : 
When  the  Uttle  hopping  elf 
Gaily  thus  amused  himself 

"Hear  your  sovereign's  proclamation, 
All  good  subjects,  young  and  old ! 

I  'm  the  Lord  of  the  Creation ; 
I — a  Water- Wagtail  bold  ! 

All  around,  and  all  you  see, 

All  the  world,  was  made  for  me  ! 

"  Yonder  sun,  so  proudly  shining. 
Rises — when  I  leave  my  nest ; 

And,  behind  the  hills  declining. 
Sets — when  I  retire  to  rest : 

Morn  and  evening,  thus  you  see, 

Day  and  night,  were  made  for  me  ! 

"  Vernal  gales  to  love  invite  me : 
Summer  sheds  for  me  her  beams  ; 

Autumn's  jovial  scenes  delight  me ; 
Winter  paves  with  ice  my  streams : 

All  the  year  is  mine,  you  see ; 

Seasons  change,  like  moons,  for  me  ! 

"On  the  heads  of  giant  mountains. 

Or  beneath  the  shady  trees ; 
By  the  banks  of  warbling  fountains, 

I  enjoy  myself  at  ease  : 
Hills  and  valleys,  thus  you  see, 
Groves  and  rivers,  made  for  me  ! 

"  Boundless  are  my  vast  dommions  : 

I  can  hop,  or  swim,  or  fly ; 
When  I  please,  my  towering  pinions 

Trace  my  empire  through  the  sky : 
Air  and  elements,  you  see. 
Heaven  and  earth,  w  ere  made  for  me  I 

"  Birds  and  insects,  beasts  and  fishes. 
All  their  humble  distance  keep; 

Man,  subserv^ent  to  my  wishes. 
Sows  the  harvest  which  I  reap : 

Mighty  man  himself  you  see, 

All  that  breathe,  were  made  for  me. 

'T  was  for  ray  accommodation 
Nature  rose  when  I  was  bom : 
Should  I  die — the  whole  creation 
Back  to  nothing  would  return : 


Sun,  moon,  stars,  the  world,  you  see, 
Sprung — exist — will  fall  with  me  ! " 

Here  the  pretty  prattler  ending. 
Spread  his  wings  to  soar  away ; 

But  a  cruel  Hawk,  descending, 

Pounced  him  up, — a  helpless  prey. 

— Couldst  thou  not,  poor  Wagtail !  see, 

That  the  Hawk  was  made  for  thee  ? 
April  15,  1796. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  IMPRISONMENT 

IN    TWO    EPISTLES   TO    A    FRIEND 
EPISTLE  I. 

You  ask,  my  friend,  and  w^ell  you  may, 
You  ask  me  how  I  spend  the  day : 
I  '11  tell  you,  in  unstudied  rhyme. 
How  wisely  I  befool  my  time : 
Expect  not  wit,  nor  fancy  then, 
In  this  effusion  of  my  pen ; 
These  idle  lines — they  might  be  worse — 
Are  simple  prose,  in  simple  verse. 

Each  morning,  then,  at  five  o'clock. 
The  adamantine  doors  unlock  ; 
Bolts,  bars,  and  portals,  crash  and  thunder. 
The  gates  of  iron  burst  asunder; 
Hinges  that  creak,  and  keys  that  jingle, 
With  clattering  chains,  in  concert  mingle* 
So  sweet  the  din,  your  dainty  ear, 
For  joy,  would  break  its  drum  to  hear ; 
While  my  dull  organs,  at  the  sound. 
Rest  in  tranquillity  profound  : 
Fantastic  dreams  amuse  my  brain. 
And  waft  my  spirit  home  again  : 
Though  captive  all  day  long,  't  is  true. 
At  night  I  am  as  free  as  you ; 
Not  ramparts  high,  nor  dungeons  deep. 
Can  hold  me  when  I  'ra  fast  asleep 

But  every  thing  is  good  in  season, 
I  dream  at  large,  and  wake  in  prison. 
Yet  think  not,  sir,  I  lie  too  late, 
I  rise  as  early  even  as  eight : 
Ten  hours  of  drowsiness  are  plenty, 
For  any  man,  in  four-and-twenfy. 
You  smile — and  yet  't  is  nobly  done, 
I  'm  but  five  hours  behind  the  sun ' 

When  dress'd,  I  to  the  yard  repair. 
And  breakfast  on  the  pure,  fresh  air : 
But  though  this  choice  Castalian  cheer 
Keeps  both  the  head  and  stomach  clear, 
For  reasons  strong  enough  with  me, 
I  mend  the  meal  with  toast  and  tea. 
Now  air  and  fame,  as  poets  sing. 
Are  both  the  same,  the  self-same  thing  • 
Yet  bards  are  not  chameleons  quite, 
And  heavenly  food  is  very  hght  : 
Who  ever  dined  or  supp'd  on  fame. 
And  went  to  bed  upon  a  name  ? 

Breakfast  dispatch'd,  I  sometimes  read 
To  clear  the  vapors  from  my  head ; 
For  books  are  magic  charms,  I  ween. 
Both  for  the  crotchets  and  the  spleen. 

300 


PRISON  AMUSEMENTS. 


117 


'When  genius,  wisdom,  wit  abound. 

Where  sound  is  sense,  and  sense  is  sound  ; 

When  art  and  nature  both  combine, 

And  Uve,  and  breathe,  in  every  Une; 

The  reader  glows  along  the  page 

With  all  the  author's  native  rage ! 

But  books  there  are  with  nothing  fraught, — 

Ten  thousand  words,  and  ne'er  a  thought ; 

Where  periods  without  period  crawl, 

Like  caterpillars  on  a  wall, 

That  fall  to  climb,  and  climb  to  fall ; 

WTiile  still  their  efforts  only  tend 

To  keep  them  from  their  journey's  end. 

The  readers  yawn  with  pure  vexation, 

And  nod — but  not  with  approbation. 

In  such  a  fog  of  dullness  lost, 

Poor  Patience  must  give  up  the  ghost; 

Not  Argus'  eyes  avvake  could  keep. 

Even  Death  might  read  himself  to  sleep. 

At  half-past  ten,  or  thereabout, 
My  eyes  are  all  upon  the  scout, 
To  see  the  lounging  post-boy  come, 
With  letters  or  with  news  from  home. 
Believe  it,  on  a  captive's  word, 
Although  the  doctrine  seem  absurd. 
The  paper-messengers  of  friends 
For  absence  almost  make  amends  • 
But  if  you  think  I  jest  or  lie, 
Come  to  York  Castle,  sir,  and  try. 

Sometimes  to  fairy-land  I  rove  : 
Those  iron  rails  become  a  grove ; 
These  stately  buildings  fall  away 
To  moss-grown  cottages  of  clay ; 
Debtors  are  changed  to  jolly  swains, 
Who  pipe  and  whistle  on  the  plains ; 
Yon  felons  grim,  with  fetters  bound. 
Are  satyrs  w^ild,  with  garlands  crown'd : 
Their  clanking  chains  are  wreaths  of  flowers  ; 
Their  horrid  cells  ambrosial  bowers  : 
The  oaths,  expiring  on  their  tongues, 
Are  metamorphosed  into  songs  ; 
While  wretched  female  prisoners,  lo  ! 
Are  Dian's  nymphs  of  virgin  snow. 
Those  hideous  walls  wiih  verdure  shoot  ; 
These  pillars  bend  with  blushing  fruit; 
That  dunghill  swells  into  a  mountain. 
The  pump  becomes  a  purling  fountain ; 
The  noisome  smoke  of  yonder  mills, 
The  circling  air  with  fragrance  fills ; 
This  horse-pond  spreads  into  a  lake. 
And  swans  of  ducks  and  geese  I  make; 
Sparrows  are  changed  to  turtle-doves, 
That  bill  and  coo  their  pretty  loves ; 
Wagtails,  turn'd  thrushes,  charm  the  vales, 
And  tomtits  sing  like  nightingales. 
No  more  the  wind  through  key-holes  whistles. 
But  sighs  on  beds  of  pinks  and  thistles ; 
The  rattling  rain  that  beats  without. 
And  gurgles  down  the  leaden  spout. 
In  light,  delicious  dew  distils. 
And  melts  away  in  amber  rills  ; 
Elysium  rises  on  the  green, 
A.nd  health  and  beauty  crovm  the  scene. 

2A 


Then  by  the  enchantress  Fancy  led, 
On  violet  banks  I  lay  my  head ; 
Legions  of  radiant  forms  arise. 
In  fair  array,  before  mine  eyes  ; 
Poetic  visions  gild  ray  brain. 
And  melt  in  liquid  air  again ! 
As  in  a  magic-lantern  clear. 
Fantastic  images  appear. 
That  beaming  from  the  spectred  glass. 
In  beautiful  succession  pass, 
Yet  steal  the  lustre  of  their  light 
From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  night: 
Thus,  in  the  darkness  of  my  head, 
Ten  thousand  shining  things  are  bred. 
That  borrow  splendor  from  the  gloom, 
As  glow-worms  twinkle  in  a  tomb. 

But  lest  these  glories  should  confound  m 
Kind  Dullness  draws  her  curtain  round  me 
The  visions  vanish  in  a  trice, 
And  I  awake  as  cold  as  ice ; 
Nothing  remains  of  all  the  vapor, 
Save — what  I  send  you — ink  and  paper 

Thus  flow  my  morning  hours  along. 
Smooth  as  the  numbers  of  my  song  : 
Yet  let  me  wander  as  I  will, 
I  feel  I  am  a  prisoner  still. 
Thus  Robin,  with  the  blushing  breast, 
Is  ravish'd  from  his  little  nest 
By  barbarous  boys,  who  bind  his  leg. 
To  make  him  flutter  round  a  peg : 
See,  the  glad  captive  spreads  his  wings. 
Mounts,  in  a  moment,  mounts  and  sings. 
When  suddenly  the  cruel  chain 
Twitches  him  back  to  earth  again. 
— The  clock  strikes  one — I  can't  delay. 
For  dinner  comes  but  once  a  day. 
At  present,  worthy  friend,  farewell; 
But  by  to-morrow's  post  I  '11  tell. 
How,  during  these  half  dozen  moons, 
I  cheat  the  lazy  afternoons. 

June  13,  1796. 


EPISTLE  II. 


In  this  sweet  place,  where  freedom  reigns 
Secured  by  bolts,  and  snug  in  chains ; 
W^here  innocence  and  guilt  together 
Roost  like  two  turtles  of  a  feather ; 
Wliere  debtors  safe  at  anchor  lie 
From  saucy  duns  and  bailiflls  sly ; 
Where  highwaymen  and  robbers  stout 
Would,  rather  than  break  in,  break  out ; 
Where  all  so  guarded  and  recluse, 
That  none  his  liberty  can  lose  ; 
Here  each  may,  as  his  means  affi)rd. 
Dine  like  a  pauper  or  a  lord. 
And  those  who  can't  the  cost  defray 
May  live  to  dine  another  day. 

Now  let  us  ramble  o'er  the  green, 
To  see  and  hear  what 's  heard  and  seen 
To  breathe  the  air,  enjoy  the  light, 
And  hail  yon  sun,  w^ho  shines  as  bright 

301 


118 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Upon  the  dungeon  and  the  gallows 

As  on  York  Minster  or  Kew  Palace. 

And  here  let  us  the  scene  review : 

That 's  the  old  castle,  this  the  new  ; 

Yonder  the  felons'  walk,  and  there 

The  lad3'-prisoners  take  the  air ; 

Behind  are  solitary  cells, 

Where  hermits  live  like  snails  in  shells  ; 

There  stands  the  chapel  for  good  people ; 

That  black  balcony  is  the  steeple ; 

How  gaily  spins  the  w  eather-cock : 

How  proudly  shines  the  crazy  clock . 

A  clock,  whose  wheels  eccentric  run 

More  like  my  head  than  like  the  sun : 

And  yet  it  shows  us,  right  or  wrong, 

The  days  are  only  twelve  houre  long ; 

Though  captives  often  reckon  here 

Each  day  a  month,  each  month  a  year. 

There  honest  William  stands  in  state, 

The  porter,  at  the  horrid  gate ;    ,^ 

Yet  no  ill-natured  soul  is  he, 

Entrance  to  all  the  world  is  free ; 

One  thing  indeed  is  rather  hard. 

Egress  is  frequently  debarr'd  ; 

Of  all  the  joys  within  that  reign. 

There 's  none  like — getting  out  again ! 

Across  the  green,  behold  the  court. 

Where  jargon  reigns  and  wigs  resort  ; 

Where  bloody  tongues  fight  bloodless  battles, 

For  life  and  death,  for  straws  and  rattles ; 

Where  juries  yawn  their  patience  out, 

And  judges  dream  in  spite  of  gout. 

There,  on  the  outside  of  the  door 

(As  sang  a  wicked  wag  of  yore), 

Stands  Mother  Justice,  tall  and  thin, 

Who  never  yet  hath  ventured  in. 

The  cause,  my  friend,  may  soon  be  shown: 

The  lady  was  a  stepping-stone. 

Till — though  the  metamorphose  odd  is — 

A  chisel  made  the  block  a  goddess  : 

— "  Odd  I  "  did  I  say  ? — I  'm  wrong  this  time  ,■ 

But  I  was  hamper'd  for  a  rhyme : 

Justice  at — I  could  tell  you  where — 

Is.just  the  same  as  justice  there. 

But  lo  !  my  frisking  dog  attends, 
The  kindest  of  four-footed  friends ; 
Brim-full  of  giddiness  and  mirth. 
He  is  the  prettiest  fool  on  earth. 
The  rogue  is  twice  a  squirrel's  size, 
With  short  snub  nose  and  big  black  eyes ; 
A  cloud  of  brown  adorns  his  tail. 
That  curls  and  serves  him  for  a  sail ; 
The  .same  deep  auburn  dyes  his  ears, 
That  never  were  abridged  by  shears  : 
While  white  around,  as  Lapland  snows. 
His  hair,  in  soft  profusion,  flows; 
Waves  on  his  breast,  and  plumes  his  feet 
With  glossy  fringe,  like  feathers  fleet. 
A  thousand  antic  tricks  he  plays. 
And  looks  at  once  a  thousand  ways  ; 
His  wit,  if  he  has  any,  lies 
Somewhere  between  his  tail  and  eyes  ; 
Sooner  the  light  those  eyes  will  fail, 
Th-on  Billy  cease  to  wag  that  tail. 


And  yet  the  fellow  ne'er  is  safe 
From  the  tremendous  beak  of  Ralph  ; 
A  raven  grim,  in  black  and  blue, 
As  arch  a  knave  as  e'er  you  knew ; 
Who  hops  about  with  broken  pinions, 
And  thinks  these  walls  his  own  dominions 
This  wag  a  mortal  foe  to  Bill  is, 
They  fight  like  Hector  and  Achilles; 
Bold  Billy  runs  with  all  his  might. 
And  conquers,  Parthian-lik'j,  in  flight ; 
While  Ralph  his  own  importance  feels, 
And  wages  endless  war  with  heels : 
Horses  and  dogs,  and  geese  and  deer. 
He  slily  pinches  in  the  rear ; 
They  start,  surprised  with  sudden  pain, 
While  honest  Ralph  sheers  off  again. 


A  melancholy  stag  appears. 
With  rueful  look  and  flagging  ears ; 
A  feeble,  lean,  consumptive  elf, 
The  very  picture  of  myself! 
]My  ghost-like  form,  and  new-moon  phiz, 
Are  just  the  counterparts  of  his  : 
Blasted  like  me  by  fortune's  frown ; 
Like  me,  twice  hunted,  twice  run  do^^^l  I 
Like  me,  pursued  almost  to  death, 
He 's  come  to  gaol  to  save  his  breath ! 
Still,  on  his  j painful  limbs,  are  seen 
The  scars  where  worrying  dogs  have  been 
Still  on  his  woe-imprinted  face, 
I  weep  a  broken  heart  to  trace. 
Daily  the  mournful  wretch  I  feed 
With  crumbs  of  comfort  and  of  bread ; 
But  man,  false  man  I  so  well  he  knows, 
He  deems  the  species  all  his  foes : 
In  vain  I  smile  to  soothe  his  fear. 
He  will  not  dare  to  come  too  near ; 
He  lingers — looks — and  fain  he  would — 
Then  strains  his  neck  to  reach  the  food. 
Oft  as  his  plaintive  looks  I  see, 
A  brother's  bowels  yearn  in  me. 
What  rocks  and  tempests  yet  await 
Both  him  and  me,  we  leave  to  fate ; 
We  know,  by  past  experience  taught, 
That  innocence  availeth  nought : 
I  feel,  and  't  is  my  proudest  boast, 
That  conscience  is  itself  a  host : 
While  this  inspires  my  swelling  breast. 
Let  all  forsake  me — I  'm  at  rest ; 
Ten  thousand  deaths,  in  every  nerve, 
I  'd  rather  suffer  than  deserve. 


But  yonder  comes  the  A-ictim's  wife, 
A  dappled  doe,  all  fire  and  life  : 
She  trips  along  with  gallant  pace. 
Her  limbs  alert,  her  motion  grace  : 
Soft  as  the  moon-light  fairies  bound, 
Her  footsteps  scarcely  kiss  the  ground ; 
Gently  she  lifts  hor  fair  brown  head. 
And  licks  my  hand,  and  begs  for  bread : 
I  pat  her  forehead,  stroke  her  neck. 
She  starts,  and  gives  a  timid  squeak ; 
Then,  while  her  eye  v;ith  brilliance  bums 
The  fav^ning  ar  'mal  returns ; 


PRISON  AMUSEMENTS. 


119 


Pricks  her  bob-tail,  and  waves  her  ears, 

And  happier  than  a  queen  appears  : 

— Poor  beast!  from  fell  ambition  free, 

And  all  the  woes  of  Liberty  ; 

Born  in  a  gaol,  a  prisoner  bred, 

No  dreams  of  hunting  rack  thine  head  ; 

Ah !  raayst  thou  never  pass  these  bounds 

To  see  the  world — and  feel  the  hounds ! 

Still  all  her  beaut)-,  all  her  art. 

Have  fail'd  to  win  her  husband's  heart; 

Her  lambent  eyes,  and  lovely  chest ; 

Her  swan-hke  neck,  and  ermine  breast ; 

Her  taper  legs,  and  spotty  hide, 

So  softly,  dehcately  pied, 

In  vain  their  fond  allurements  spread, — 

To  love  and  joy  her  spouse  is  dead. 

But  lo  I  the  evening  shadows  fall 

Broader  and  browner  from  the  wall ; 

A  warning  voice,  like  curfe-^v-bell, 

Commands  each  captive  to  his  cell ; 

My  faithful  dog  and  I  retire. 

To  play  and  chatter  by  the  fire : 

Soon  comes  a  turnkey  with  "Good  night,  sir!' 

And  bolts  the  door  with  all  his  might,  sir  : 

Then  leisurely  to  bed  I  creep. 

And  sometimes  wake — and  sometmies  sleep. 

These  are  the  joys  that  reign  in  prison, 

And  if  I  'm  happy,  'tis  with  reason: 

Yet  still  this  prospect  o'er  the  rest 

Makes  every  blessing  doubly  blest  ; 

That  soon  these  pleasures  will  be  vanish'd. 

And  I,  from  all  these  comforts,  banish'd ! 


June  14,  1796. 


THE   BRAMIN. 

EXTRACT  FROM  CANTO  I. 

Once,  on  the  mountain's  balmy  lap  reclined. 
The  sage  unlock'd  the  treasures  of  his  mind  ; 
Pure  from  his  lips  sublime  instruction  carne, 
As  the  blest  altar  breathes  celestial  flame ; 
A  band  of  youths  and  virgins  round  him  press'd. 
Whom  thus  the  prophet  and  the  sage  address'd. 

"Through  the  w^ide  universe's  boundless  range. 
All  that  exist  decay,  revive,  and  change  : 
No  atom  torpid  or  inactive  lies  ; 
A  being,  once  created,  never  dies. 
The  waning  moon,  when  quench'd  in  shades  of  night, 
Renews  her  youth  with  all  the  charms  of  light ; 
!     The  flowery  beauties  of  the  blooming  year 

Shrink  from  the  shivering  blast,  and  disappear ; 
1     Yet,  warm'd  with  quickening  showers  of  genial  rain, 
I     Spring  from  their  graves,  and  purple  all  the  plain. 

As  day  the  night,  and  night  succeeds  the  day, 
i    So  death  reanimates,  so  lives  decay : 
;     Like  billows  on  the  undulating  main, 
'    The  swelling  fall,  the  falling  svyell  again  ; 
Thus,  on  the  tide  of  lime,  inconstant,  roll 
The  dying  body  and  the  living  soul. 
In  every  animal,  inspired  with  breath. 
The  flowers  of  life  produce  the  seeds  of  death; — 
The  seeds  of  death,  though  scatter'd  in  the  tomb, 
Spring  with  new  vigor,  vegetate  and  bloom. 


"  When  wasted  down  to  dust  the  creature  dies 
Quick,  from  its  cell,  the  enfranchised  spirit  flies ; 
Fills,  with  fresh  energy,  another  form, 
And  towers  an  elephant,  or  glides  a  worm; 
The  awful  lion's  royal  shape  assumes ; 
The  fox's  subtlety,  or  peacock's  plumes ; 
Swims,  like  an  eagle,  in  the  eye  of  noon. 
Or  wails,  a  screech-owl,  to  the  deaf,  cold  moon ; 
Haunts  the  dread  brakes,  where  serpents  hiss  and  glare 
Or  hums,  a  glittering  insect,  in  the  air. 
The  illustrious  souls  of  great  and  virtuous  men, 
In  noble  animals  revive  again  : 
But  base  and  vicious  spirits  wind  their  way 
In  scorpions,  vultures,  sharks,  and  beasts  of  prey. 
The  fair,  the  gay,  the  witty,  and  the  brave. 
The  fool,  the  coward,  courtier,  tyrant,  slave ; 
Each,  in  congenial  animals,  shall  find 
A  home  and  kindred  for  his  wandering  mind. 

"  Even  the  cold  body,  when  enshrined  in  earth, 
Rises  again  in  vegetable  birth  : 
From  the  vile  ashes  of  the  bad  proceeds 
A  baneful  harvest  of  pernicious  weeds  ; 
The  relics  of  the  good,  awaked  by  showers. 
Peep  from  ihe  lap  of  death,  and  live  in  flowers ; 
Sweet  modest  flowers,  that  blush  along  the  vale. 
Whose  fragrant  lips  embalm  the  passing  gale." 

EXTRACT  FROM  CANTO  II. 


Now,  mark  the  words  these  dying  hps  impart. 
And  wear  this  grand  memorial  round  your  heart: 
All  that  inhabit  ocean,  air,  or  earth. 
From  ONE  eternal  sire  derive  their  birth. 
The  Hand  that  built  the  palace  of  the  sky 
Form'd  the  light  wings  that  decorate  a  fly  ; 
The  Power  that  wheels  the  circling  planets  roimd 
Rears  every  infant  flow'ret  on  tlie  ground; 
That  Bounty  which  the  mightiest  beings  share 
Feeds  the  least  gnat  that  gilds  the  evening  air. 
Thus  all  the  wild  inhabitants  of  woods, 
Children  of  air,  and  tenants  of  the  floods; 
All,  all  are  equal,  independent,  free. 
And  all  the  heirs  of  immortality! 
For  all  that  live  and  breathe  have  once  been  men, 
And,  in  succession,  will  be  such  again : 
Even  you,  in  turn,  that  human  shape  must  change, 
And  through  ten  thousand  forms  of  being  range. 

Ah!  then,  refrain  your  brethren's  blood  to  spill, 
And,  till  you  can  create,  forbear  to  kill ! 
Oft  as  a  guiltless  fellow-creature  dies. 
The  blood  of  innocence  for  vengeance  cries : 
Even  grim,  rapacious  savages  of  prey, 
Presume  not,  save  in  self-defence,  to  slay. 
What,  though  to  Heaven  their  forfeit  lives  they  owe 
Hath  Heaven  commission'd  thee  to  deal  the  blow  ? 
Crush  not  the  feeble,  inoffensive  worm. 
Thy  sister's  spirit  wears  that  humble  foim ! 
Why.should  thy  cruel  arrow  smite  yon  bird? 
In  him  ihy  brother's  plaintive  song  is  heard. 
When  the  poor,  harmless  kid,  all  trembling,  lies, 
And  begs  his  little  life  with  infant  cries. 
Think,  ere  you  take  the  throbbingiictim's  breath, 
You  doom  a  dear,  an  only  child,  to  death. 

303 


120 


MONTGOxMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When  at  the  ring  the  beauteous  heifer  stands, 

— Stay,  monster  I  stay  those  parricidal  hands  ; 

Canst  thou  not,  in  that  mild  dejected  face, 

The  sacred  features  of  thy  mother  trace  ? 

When  to  the  stake  the  generous  bull  you  lead, 

Tremble, — ah,  tremble, — lest  your  father  bleed. 

Let  not  your  anger  on  your  dog  descend, 

The  faithful  animal  was  once  your  friend ; 

The  friend  whose  courage  snatch'd  you  from  the  grave, 

When  wrapt  in  flames  or  sinking  in  the  wave. 

— Rash,  impious  youth !  renounce  that  horrid  knife, 

Spare  the  sweet  antelope  '  ah,  spare — thy  wife ! 

In  the  meek  victim's  tear-illumined  eyes, 

See  the  soft  image  of  thy  consort  rise ; 

Such  as  she  is,  when  by  romantic  streams. 

Her  spirit  greets  thee  in  delightful  dreams  ; 

Not  as  she  look'd,  when  blighted  in  her  bloom ; 

Not  as  she  lies,  all  pale  in  yonder  tomb ; 

That  mournful  tomb,  where  all  thy  joys  repose  ! 

That  hallow'd  tomb,  where  all  thy  griefs  shall  close. 

While  yet  I  sing,  the  weary  king  of  light 
Resigns  his  sceptre  to  the  queen  of  night  ; 
Unnumber'd  orbs  of  living  fire  appear. 
And  roll  in  glittering  grandeur  o'er  the  sphere. 
Perhaps  the  soul,  released  from  earthly  ties, 
A  thousand  ages  hence  may  mount  the  skies  ; 
Through  suns  and  planets,  stars  and  systems  range. 
In  each  new  forms  assume,  relinquish,  change ; 


From  age  to  age,  from  world  to  world  aspire. 
And  climb  the  scale  of  being  higher  and  higher; 
But  who  these  awful  mysteries  dare  Explore  ? 
Pause,  O  my  soul !  and  tremble,  and  adore. 

There  is  a  Powder,  all  other  powers  above. 
Whose  name  is  Goodness,  and  His  nature  Love : 
Who  call'd  the  infant  universe  to  light. 
From  central  nothing  and  circumfluent  night. 
On  His  great  providence  all  worlos  depend. 
As  trembling  atoms  to  their  centre  tend : 
In  nature's  face  His  glory  shines  confest. 
She  wears  His  sacred  image  on  her  breast; 
His  spirit  breathes  in  every  living  soul ; 
His  bounty  feeds,  his  presence  fills  the  whole ; 
Though  seen,  invisible — though  felt,  unknown: 
All  that  exist,  exist  in  Him  alone. 
But  who  the  wonders  of  His  hand  can  trace 
Through  the  dread  ocean  of  unfathom'd  space  ? 
When  from  the  shore  we  lift  our  fainting  eyes. 
Where  boundless  scenes  of  God-like  grandeur  rise 
Like  sparkling  atoms  in  the  noonlide  rays, 
Worlds,  stars,  and  suns,  and  universes  blaze ! 
Yet  these  transcendent  monuments  that  shine, 
Eternal  miracles  of  skill  divine. 
These,  and  ten  thousand  more,  are  only  still 
The  shadow  of  His  power,  the  transcript  of  His  w-ill. 
April  14, 1796. 


J«i?DiceUaneou!(ji  iaorini^. 


O  laborum 
Dulce  lenimen,  mihicumque  salve 
Kite  vocanti. 

Horat.  ad  Lyram,  Od.  XXXII,  lib.  1. 


THE  GRAVE. 

There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found. 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer-evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 
And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  Misery  stole  me  at  my  birth. 
And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild  : 
I  perish ; — 0  my  Mother  Earth, 

Take  home  thy  Child. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined. 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee ; 
Nor  leave  q^te  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 


Hark  I — a  strange  sound  afl^rights  mine  ear 
My  pulse, — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave  ; 
— Ah  I  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear? 
— "  I  am  THE  Grave  ! " 

"  The  Grave,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide: 
O  listen  ! — I  will  speak  no  more  : — 
Be  silent,  Pride ! 

"  Art  thou  a  Wretch  of  hope  forlorn. 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 

By  fell  despair  ? 

"  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast? 
And  ghosts  of  unibrgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest  ? 


"  Lash'd  by  the  furies  of  the  mind. 
From  Wrath  and  Vengeance  wo>ildst  thou  flee  ) 
Ah  I  think  not,  hope  not,  fool,  to  find  ! 

A  friend  in  me. 


304 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


121 


"  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 

"  A  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break ; 

Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ; 

Afflictions  all  his  children  feel  ; 

By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb ; 

He  w^ounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake. 

By  Death  and  Hell ; 

He  wounds  to  heal 

"  I  charge  thee  live  ! — repent  and  pray, 

"  Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand. 

In  dust  tliine  infamy  deplore  ; 

Prostrate  his  Providence  adore  : 

There  yet  is  mercy — go  thy  way, 

'Tis  done! — Arise  I  He  bids  thee  stand. 

And  sin  no  more. 

To  fall  no  more. 

"  Art  thou  a  Mourner  ? — Hast  thou  known 

«  Now,  Traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears. 

The  joy  of  innocent  delights, 

To  realms  of  everlasting  light. 

Endearing  days  for  ever  flown. 

Through  Time's  dark  wilderness  of  years. 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 

Pursue  thy  flight. 

"  0  LITE ! — and  deeply  cherish  still 

«  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past: 

A  rest  for  wear>'  Pilgrims  found  ; 

Rely  on  Heaven's  unchanging  will 

And  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 

For  peace  at  last 

Low  in  the  ground, 

"  Art  thou  a  Wanderer  ? — Hast  thou  seen 

"  The  Soul,  of  origin  divine, 

O'erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  ? 

God's  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay. 

A  shipwreck'd  sufferer,  hast  thou  been 

In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 

Misfortune's  mark  ? 

A  star  of  day. 

"Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 

"  The  Sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire. 

Condemn'd  in  wretchedness  to  roam, 

A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky ; 

Live  I — thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port. 

The  Soul,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

A  quiet  home. 

Shall  never  die." 

"  To  Friendship  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame. 

= 

And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe. 

\Vho  stole  into  thy  breast  to  aim 

THE  LYRE. 

A  surer  blow  ? 

Ah !  who  would  love  the  lyre  1 

"  Live  ! — and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss. 

W.  B.  Stevens. 

A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told : 
Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship's  gold. 

Where  the  roving  rill  meanderd 

Down  the  green  retiring  vale. 

"  Seek  the  true  treasure,  seldom  found, 

Poor,  forlorn  Alc^us  wander'd. 

Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm. 

Pale  with  thought,  serenely  pale : 

And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound 

Timeless  sorrow  o'er  his  face 

With  heavenly  balm. 

Breathed  a  melancholy  grace. 

And  fix'd  on  every  feature  there 

"  Did  Woman's  charms  thy  youth  beguile. 

The  mourriful  resignation  of  despair. 

And  did  the  Fair  One  faithless  prove  ? 

Hath  she  betray "d  thee  with  a  smile. 

O'er  his  arm,  his  lyre  neglected, 

And  sold  thy  love  ? 

Once  his  dear  companion,  hung, 

And,  in  spirit  deep  dejected. 

"  Live  !  'T  was  a  false  bewildering  fire : 

Thus  the  pensive  poet  sung : 

Too  often  Love's  insidious  dart 

While,  at  midnight's  solemn  noon. 

Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire, 

Sweetly  shone  the  cloudless  moon, 

But  kills  the  heart. 

And  all  the  stars,  around  his  head. 

"  Thou  yet  shalt  know,  how  sweet,  how  dear. 

Benignly  bright,  their  mildest  influence  shed 

To  gaze  on  listening  Beauty's  eye  ; 

"  Lyre !  0  Lyre !  my  chosen  treasure. 

To  ask, — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 

Solace  of  my  bleeding  heart  ; 

Till  she  reply. 

Lyre!  0  Lyre!  my  only  pleasure, 

We  must  now  for  ever  part  : 

"  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast. 

For  in  vain  thy  poet  sings. 

A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove  ; 

Wooes  in  vain  thine  heavenly  strings ; 

Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 

The  IMuse's  wretched  sons  are  born 

In  woman's  love. 

To  cold  neglect,  and  penury,  and  scorn. 

" — WTiate'er  thy  lot, — whoe'er  thou  be, — 

"  That  which  Alexander  sigh'd  for, 

Confess  thy  folly,  kiss  the  rod, 

That  which  Ca?sar's  soul  possess'd. 

And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 

That  which  heroes,  kings,  have  died  for  - 

The  hand  of  God. 

Glory  ! — animates  my  breast  • 

39                                                    2A2 

305 

122 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hark !  the  charging  trumpets'  throats 

"  What,  though  all  the  world  neglect  me, 

Pour  their  death-detying  notes; 

Shall  my  haughty  soul  repine  ? 

'  To  arras ! '  they  call :  to  arms  I  fly, 

And  shall  poverty  deject  me, 

Like  Wolfe  to  conquer,  and  like  Wolfe  to  die. 

While  this  hallow'd  Lyre  is  mme  ? 

Heaven — that  o'er  my  helpless  head 

"Soft! — the  blood  of  murder'd  legions 

Many  a  WTathful  vial  shed, — 

Summons  vengeance  from  the  skies ; 

Heaven  gave  this  Lyre, — and  thus  decreed. 

Flaming  towns  and  ravaged  regions, 

Be  thou  a  bruised,  but  not  a  broken  reed." 

All  in  awful  judgment  rise. — 

0  then,  innocently  brave, 

1  will  wrestle  with  the  wave ; 

Lo  !  Commerce  spreads  the  daring  sail, 

REMONSTRANCE  TO  WINTER 

And  yokes  her  naval  chariots  to  the  gale. 

Ah  I  why,  unfeeling  Winter,  why 

"  Blow,  ye  breezes  I — gently  blowing, 

Still  flags  thy  torpid  wing  ? 

Waft  me  to  that  happy  shore. 

Fly,  melancholy  Season,  fly, 

Where  from  fountains  ever  flowing 

And  yield  the  year  to  Spring. 

Indian  realms  their  treasures  pour : 

Thence  returning,  poor  in  health. 

Spring, — the  young  harbinger  of  love, 

Rich  in  honesty  and  wealth, 

An  exile  in  disgrace, — 

O'er  thee,  my  dear  paternal  soil. 

Flits  o'er  the  scene,  like  Noah's  dove, 

I'll  strew  the  golden  harvest  of  my  toil. 

Nor  finds  a  resting-place. 

•'  Then  shall  Misery's  sons  and  daughters 

When  on  the  mountain's  azure  peak 

In  their  lowly  dwellings  sing  ; 

Alights  her  fairy  form, 

Bounteous  as  the  Nile's  dark  waters, 

Cold  blow  the  winds, — and  dark  and  bleak 

Undiscover'd  as  the  spring. 

Around  her  rolls  the  stonn. 

I  will  scatter  o'er  the  land 

Blessings  with  a  secret  hand ; — 

If  to  the  valley  she  repair 

For  such  angelic  tasks  design'd. 

For  shelter  and  defence, 

I  giv^the  Lyre  and  sorrow  to  the  wind." 

Thy  wrath  pursues  the  mourner  there 

And  drives  her,  weeping,  thence 

On  an  oak,  whose  branches  hoary 

Sigh'd  to  even,'  passing  breeze. 

She  seeks  the  brook,  the  faithless  brook 

Sigh'd  and  told  the  simple  story 

Of  her  unmindful  grown, 

Of  the  patriarch  of  trees ; 

Feels  the  chill  magic  of  thy  look, 

High  in  the  air  his  harp  he  hung, 

And  lingers  into  stone. 

Now  no  more  to  rapture  strung; 

Then  warm  in  hope,  no  longer  pale. 

She  wooes  her  embrjo  flowers  in  vam 

He  blush'd  adieu,  and  rambled  down  the  dale. 

To  rear  their  infant  heads ; — 

Deaf  to  her  voice,  her  flowers  remain 

Lightly  touch'd  by  fairj*  fingers, 

Enchanted  in  their  beds. 

Hark ! — the  Lyre  enchants  the  wind  ; 

Fond  Alc^us  listens,  lingers, 

In  vain  she  bids  the  trees  expand 

— Lingering,  listening,  looks  behind. 

Their  green  luxuriant  charms ; — 

Now  the  music  mounts  on  high, 

Bare  in  the  wilderness  they  stand. 

Sweetly  sweUing  through  the  sky; 

And  stretch  their  withering  arras. 

To  every  tone,  with  tender  heat. 

His  heart-strings  vibrate,  and  his  pulses  beat. 

Her  favorite  birds,  in  feeble  notes, 

Lament  thy  long  delay  ; 

Now  the  strains  to  silence  stealing, 

And  strain  their  little  stamraering  throats 

Soft  in  ecstacies  expire  ; 

To  charm  thy  blasts  away. 

Oh  !  with  what  romantic  feeling 

Poor  Alcaeus  grasps  the  Lyre. 

Ah,  Winter,  calra  thy  cruel  rage, 

Lo !  his  furious  hand  he  flings 

Release  the  struggling  year ; 

In  a  tempest  o'er  the  strings ; 

Thy  power  is  past,  decrepit  Sage, 

He  strikes  the  chords  so  quick,  so  loud, 

Arise  and  disappear. 

'T  is  Jove  that  scatters  lightning  from  a  cloud. 

The  stars  that  graced  thy  splendid  night 

"  Lyre  !  0  Lyre  !  my  chosen  treasure, 

Are  lost  in  warmer  rays ; 

Solace  of  my  bleeding  heart , 

The  Sun,  rejoicing  in  his  might, 

Lyre  I  0  Lyre  !  my  only  pleasure, 

Unrolls  celestial  days. 

We  will  never,  never  part. 

Glory,  Commerce,  now  in  vain 

Then  why,  usurping  Winter,  why 

Tempt  me  to  the  field,  the  main; 

Still  flags  thy  frozen  wing  ? 

The  IMuse's  sons  are  blest,  though  born 

Fly,  unrelenting  tyrant,  fly — 

To  cold  neglect,  and  oenurv,  and  scorn. 

And  yield  the  year  to  Spring. 

306 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


V23 


SONG. 
Round  Love's  Elysian  bowers 

The  fairest  prospects  rise  ; 
There  bloom  the  sweetest  flowers, 
There  shine  the  purest  skies, 
And  joy  and  rapture  gild  awhile 
The  cloudless  heaven  of  Beauty's  smile. 

Round  Love's  deserted  bowers 

Tremendous  rocks  arise  ; 
Cold  mildews  blight  the  flowers, 
Tornadoes  rend  the  skies  : 
And  Pleasure's  waning  moon  goes  down 
Amid  the  night  of  Beauty's  frown. 

Then,  Youth,  thou  fond  believer ! 

The  wily  Siren  shun  : 
Who  trusts  the  dear  Deceiver 
Will  surely  be  undone. 
When  Beauty  triumphs,  ah  !  beware  : 
Her  smile  is  hope — her  frown  despair. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    UNDER    A    DRAWING    OF    YARDLY    OAK, 
CELEBRATED    EY    COWPER. 


See  Hayley's  Life  and  Letters  of  W.  Cowper,  Esq. 


This  sole  survivor  of  a  race 
Of  giant  oaks,  where  once  the  wood 
Rang  with  the  battle  or  the  chase. 
In  stem  and  lonely  grandeur  stood. 

From  age  to  age,  it  slowly  spread 
Its  gradual  bouglis  to  sun  and  wind; 
From  age  to  age,  its  noble  head 
As  slowly  w'ither'd  and  declined. 

A  thousand  years  are  like  a  day. 
When  fled  ; — no  longer  known  than  seen  ; 
This  tree  was  doom'd  to  pass  away, 
And  be  as  if  it  ne'er  had  been; — 

But  mournful  Cowper,  wandering  nigh. 
For  rest  beneath  its  shadow  came, 
W^hen,  lo  !  the  voice  of  days  gone  by 
AsGpnded  from  its  hollow  frame. 

O  that  the  Poet  had  reveal'd 
The  words  of  those  prophetic  strains. 
Ere  Death  the  eternal  mystery  seal'd ! 
Yet  in  his  song  the  Oak  remains. 

And  fresh  in  undecaying  prime. 
There  may  it  live,  beyond  the  power 
Of  storm  and  earthquake,  Man  and  Time, 
Till  Nature's  conflagration-hour. 


SONG 

written  for  a  society,  whose  motto  was 
"  friendship,  love,  and  truth." 


When  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth ' 
Among  a  band  of  Brothers, 

The  cup  of  joy  goes  gaily  round. 
Each  shares  the  bliss  of  others : 


abound 


Sweet  roses  grace  the  thorny  way 

Along  this  vale  of  sorrow ; 
The  flowers  that  shed  their  leaves  to-day 
Shall  bloom  again  to-morrow  : 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth, 
Are  holy  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth  ! " 

On  halcyon  wings  our  moments  pass. 

Life's  cruel  cares  beguiling ; 
Old  Time  la\-s  down  his  scythe  and  fl">»ss 

In  gay  good-humor  smiling : 
With  ermine  beard  and  forelock  grey 

His  reverend  front  adorning, 
He  looks  like  Winter  turn'd  to  May, 
Night  soften'd  into  Morning. 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth, 
Are  holy  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth 

From  these  delightful  fountains  flow 

Ambrosial  rills  of  pleasure  : 
Can  man  desire,  can  Heaven  bestow 

A  more  resplendent  treasure  ? 
Adorn'd  with  gems  so  richly  bright. 

We'll  form  a  Constellation. 
Where  every  Star,  with  modest  light 

Shall  gild  his  proper  station. 
How  grand  in  age,  how  fair  in  youth. 
Are  holy  "  Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth 


RELIGION, 

AN    OCCASIONAL    HYMN. 

Through  shades  and  solitudes  profountf 
The  fainting  traveller  Avinds  his  way. 

Bewildering  meteors  glare  around. 
And  tempt  his  wandering  feet  astray 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  his  eye. 
The  sudden  moon's  inspiring  light, 

When  forth  she  sallies  through  the  sky. 
The  guardian  angel  of  the  night. 

Thus  mortals,  blind  and  weak,  below 
Pursue  the  phantom  Bliss,  in  vain , 

The  world 's  a  wilderness  of  woe, 
And  life  a  pilgrimage  of  pain, — 

Till  mild  Religion,  from  above. 
Descends,  a  sweet  engaging  form- 

The  messenger  of  heavenly  love. 
The  bow  of  promise  in  a  storm. 

Then  guilty  passions  wing  their  flight, 
Sorrow,  remorse,  aflliction  cease  ; 

Religion's  yoke  is  soft  and  light. 
And  all  her  paths  are  paths  of  peace 

Ambition,  pride,  revenge  depart, 
And  folly  flies  her  chastening  rod  ; 

She  makes  the  humble  contrite  heart 
A  temple  of  the  living  God. 

Beyond  the  narrow  vale  of  time, 
"Where  bright  celestial  ages  roll. 

To  scenes  eternal,  scenes  sublime. 

She  points  the  way,  and  leads  the  soul 
307 


124 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  her  approach,  the  Grave  appears 
The  Gate  of  Paradise  restored  ; 

Her  voice  the  u^atching  Cherub  hears, 
And  drops  his  double-flaming  sword. 

Baptized  with  her  renewing  fire, 
May  we  the  crown  of  glory  gain  ; 

Rise  when  the  Host  of  Heaven  expire, 
And  reign  with  God,  for  ever  reign ! 


"THE  JOY  OF  GRIEF." 

OSSIAN. 

Sweet  the  hour  of  tribulation, 
When  the  heart  can  freely  sigh ; 

And  the  tear  of  resignation 
Twinkles  in  the  mournful  eye. 

Have  you  felt  a  kind  emotion 

Tremble  through  your  troubled  breast: 
Soft  as  evening  o'er  the  ocean, 

When  she  charms  the  waves  to  rest  ? 

Have  you  lost  a  friend,  or  brother? 

Heard  a  father's  parting  breath? 
Gazed  upon  a  lifeless  mother, 

Till  she  seem'd  to  wake  from  death  ? 

Have  you  felt  a  spouse  expiring 
In  your  arms,  before  your  view  ? 

Watch'd  the  lovely  soul  retiring 
From  her  eyes  that  broke  on  you  ? 

Did  not  grief  then  grow  romantic, 
Raving  on  remember'd  bliss  ? 

Did  you  not,  with  fervor  frantic, 
Kiss  the  lips  that  felt  no  kiss  ? 

Yes  !  but,  when  you  had  resign'd  her. 
Life  and  you  were  reconciled ; 

Anna  left — she  left  beliind  her, 
One,  one  dear,  one  only  child. 

But  before  the  green  moss  peeping, 
His  poor  mother's  grave  array'd, 

In  that  grave  the  infant  sleeping 
On  the  mother's  lap  was  laid. 

Horror  then,  your  heart  congealing, 
Chill'd  you  with  intense  despair: 

Can  you  call  to  mind  the  feeling  ? — 
No  I  there  was  no  feeling  there. 

From  that  gloomy  trance  of  sorrow 
When  you  woke  to  pangs  unknown. 

How  unwelcome  was  the  morrow. 
For  it  rose  on  you  alone! 

Sunk  in  self-consuming  anguish. 
Can  the  poor  heart  always  ache  ? 

JN  o !  the  tortured  nerve  will  languish, 
Or  the  strings  of  lite  must  break. 

O'er  the  yielding  brow  of  Sadness 
One  faint  smile  of  comfort  stole  ; 

One  soft  pang  of  tender  gladness 
Exquisitely  thrill'd  your  soul. 


While  the  wounds  of  woe  are  healing, 
W^hile  the  heart  is  all  resign'd  ; 

'T  is  a  solemn  feast  of  feeling, 
'T  is  the  sabbath  of  the  mind. 

Pensive  memory  then  retraces 
Scenes  of  bliss  for  ever  fled. 

Lives  in  former  limes  and  places, 
Holds  communion  with  the  dead. 

And  when  night's  prophetic  slumbers 
Rend  the  veil  to  mortal  eyes, 

From  their  torhbs  the  sainted  numbers 
Of  our  lost  companions  rise. 

You  have  seen  a  friend,  a  brother, 
Heard  a  dear  dead  father  speak ; 

Proved  the  fondness  of  a  mother, 
Felt  her  tears  upon  your  cheek. 

Dreams  of  love  your  grief  beguiling. 
You  have  clasp'd  a  consort's  charms, 

And  received  your  infant  smiling 
From  his  mother's  sacred  arms. 

Trembling,  pale,  and  agonizing. 

While  you  mourn'd  the  vision  gone, 

Bright  the  morning-slar  arising 

Open'd  heaven,  from  whence  it  shone 

Thither  all  your  wishes  bending, 

Rose  in  ecstacy  sublime, 
Thither  all  your  hopes  ascending 

Triumph'd  over  death  and  time. 

Thus  afflicted,  bruised,  and  Ijroken, 
Have  you  known  such  sweet  relief? 

Yes,  my  friend ;  and  by  this  token, 
You  have  felt  "  the  joy  of  grief." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ALEXANDRIA. 


At  Thebes,  in  Ancient  Egypt,  was  erected  a  slatue  of  Memnon, 
with  a  harp  in  his  hand,  which  is  said  to  have  hailed  with 
delightful  music  the  rising  sun,  and  in  melancholy  tones  to 
have  mourned  his  departure.  The  introduction  of  this  cele- 
brated Lyre,  on  a  modern  occasion,  will  be  censured  as  an 
anachronism  by  those  only  who  think  that  its  chords  have 
been  touched  unskilfully.  ^ 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strur^ 
To  the  music  of  the  spheres,     ^ 

While  the  Hero's  dirge  is  sung. 
Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

As  the  Sun's  descending  tfeams.      ^• 
Glancing  o'er  thy  feeling  wire, 

Kindle  every  chord  that  gleams. 
Like  a  ray  of  heavenly  fire  : 

Let  thy  numbers,  soft  and  slow. 
O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying,  while  they 'flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

Bright  as  Venus,  newly  born,    ' 
Blusliing  at  her  maiden  charms , 

Fresh  from  ocean  rose  the  Morn, 
When  the  trumpet  blew  to  arms. 
,^    308 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


125 


0  that  Time  had  stay'd  its  flight, 
Ere  that  Morning  left  the  main — 

Fatal  as  the  Egj'ptian  night, 
When  the  eldest-bom  were  slain. 

Lash'd  to  madness  by  the  wind, 

As  the  Red  Sea  surges  roar, 
Leave  a  gloomy  gulf  behind, 

And  devour  the  shrinking  shore ; 

Thus,  with  overwhelming  pride, 
Gallia's  brightest,  boldest  boast, 

In  a  deep  and  dreadful  tide, 
Roll'd  upon  the  British  host. 

Dauntless  these  their  station  held. 
Though,  with  unextinguish'd  ire, 

Gallia's  legions,  thrice  repell'd, 
Thrice  return'd  through  blood  and  fire. 

Thus,  above  the  storms  of  time. 
Towering  to  the  sacred  spheres, 

Stand  the  pyramids  sublime, — 
Rocks  amid  the  flood  of  years. 

Novv-  the  veteran  Chief  drew  nigh, 
Conquest  towering  on  his  crest, 

Valor  beaming  from  his  eye, 
Pity  bleeding  in  his  breast. 

Britain  saw  him  thus  advance 
In  her  Guardian  Angel's  form ; 

But  he  lower'd  on  hostile  France 
Like  the  Demon  of  the  Storm. 

On  the  whirlwind  of  the  war 
High  he  rode,  in  vengeance  dire ; 

To  his  friends  a  leading  star, 
To  his  foes  consuming  fire. 

Then  the  mighty  pour'd  their  breath. 
Slaughter  feasted  on  the  brave  : 

'T  was  the  Carnival  of  Death  ; 
'T  was  the  Vintage  of  the  Grave. 

Charged  with  Abercrombie's  doom, 
Lightning  wing'd  a  cruel  ball : 

'T  was  the  Herafd  of  the  Tomb, 
And  the  Hero  felt  the  call — 

Felt — and  raised  his  arm  on  high ; 

Victory  well  the  signal  knew, 
Darted  from  his  awful  eye. 

And  the  force  of  France  o'erthrew. 

But  the  horrors  of  that  fight 
Were  the  weeping  Muse  to  tell. 

Oh  'twould  cleave  the  womb  of  night. 
And  awake  the  dead  that  fell! 

Gash'd  with  honorable  scars. 

Low  in  Glory's  lap  they  lie ; 
Though  they  fell,  they  fell  like  stars, 

Streaming  splendor  through  the  sky. 

Yet  shall  Memory  mourn  that  day, 
When,  with  expectation  pale, 

Of  her  soldier  far  away 
The  poor  widow  hears  the  tale. 


In  imagination  wild. 

She  shall  wander  o'er  this  plain, 
Rave, — and  bid  her  orphan-child 

Seek  his  sire  among  the  slain. 

Gently,  from  the  western  deep, 

O  ye  evening  breezes,  rise ! 
O'er  the  Lyre  of  Memnon  sweep. 

Wake  its  spirit  with  your  sighs. 

Harp  of  Memnon  !  sweetly  strung 
To  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

While  the  Hero's  dirge  is  sung 
Breathe  enchantment  to  our  ears. 

Let  thy  numbers  soft  and  slow. 

O'er  the  plain  with  carnage  spread, 

Soothe  the  dying,  while  they  flow 
To  the  memory  of  the  dead. 

None  but  solemn,  tender  tones 

Tremble  from  thy  plaintive  wires  : 

Hark !  the  wounded  warrior  groans  : 
Hush  thy  warbling ! — he  expires. 

Hush!  while  Sorrow  wakes  and  weeps; 

O'er  his  relics  cold  and  pale 
Night  her  silent  vigil  keeps. 

In  a  mournful  moonlight  veil. 

Harp  of  INIemnon  I  from  afar. 
Ere  the  lark  salute  the  sky. 

Watch  the  rising  of  the  star 

That  proclaims  the  morning  nigh. 

Soon  the  Sun's  ascending  rays, 

In  a  flood  of  hallow'd  fire. 
O'er  thy  kindling  chords  shall  blaze. 

And  thy  magic  soul  inspire. 

Then  thy  tones  triumphant  pour, 
Let  them  pierce  the  Hero's  grave; 

Life's  tumultuous  battle  o'er, 
O  Irow  sweetly  sleep  the  brave  ! 

From  the  dust  their  laurels  bloom. 
High  they  shoot  and  flourish  free ; 

Glory's  Temple  is  the  tomb, 
Death  is  immortality. 


THE  PILLOW. 

The  head  that  oft  this  Pillow  press'd. 
That  aching  head,  is  gone  to  rest ; 
Its  little  pleasures  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  mighty  sorrows  o'er, 
For  ever,  in  the  worm's  dark  bed, 
For  ever  sleeps  that  humble  head ! 

My  Friend  was  young,  the  world  was  neWj 
Tlie  world  was  false,  my  friend  was  true ; 
Lowly  his  lot,  his  birth  obscure, 
His  fortune  hard,  my  friend  was  poor ; 
To  wisdom  he  had  no  pretence, 
A  child  of  suffering,  not  of  sense ; 
For  Nature  never  did  impart 
A  weaker  or  a  warmer  heart. 

309 


126 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


His  fervent  soul,  a  soul  of  flame, 
Consumed  its  frail  terrestrial  frame  ; 
That  tire  from  Heaven  so  fiercely  bum'd, 
That  whence  it  came  it  soon  return'd : 
And  yet,  O  Pillow !  yet  to  me, 
My  gentle  Friend  survives  in  thee ; 
In  thee,  the  partner  of  his  bed. 
In  thee,  the  widow  of  the  dead. 

On  Helicon's  inspiring  brink, 
Ere  yet  my  Friend  had  learn'd  to  think, 
Once  as  he  pass'd  the  careless  day 
Among  the  whispering  reeds  at  play. 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wander'd  by ; 
Her  pensive  beauty  fix'd  his  eye ; 
With  sweet  astonishment  he  smiled  ; 
The  Gipsy  saw — she  stole  the  child  ; 
And  soft  on  her  ambrosial  breast 
Sang  the  delighted  babe  to  rest  ; 
Convey'd  him  to  her  inmost  grove. 
And  loved  him  with  a  Mother's  love. 
Awaking  from  his  rosy  nap, 
And  gaily  sporting  on  her  lap, 
His  wanton  fingers  o'er  her  lyre 
Twinkled  like  electric  fire  : 
Quick  and  quicker  as  they  flew, 
Sweet  and  sweeter  tones  they  drew ; 
Now  a  bolder  hand  he  flings, 
And  dives  among  the  deepest  strings , 
Then  forth  the  music  brake  like  thunder ; 
Back  he  started,  wild  with  wonder. 
The  Muse  of  Sorrow  wept  for  joy. 
And  clasp'd  and  kiss'd  her  chosen  boy. 

Ah !  then  no  more  his  smiling  hours 
Were  spent  in  Childhood's  Eden-bowers ; 
The  fall  from  Infant-innocence, 
The  fall  to  knowledge  drives  us  thence : 
O  Knowledge  !  worthless  as  the  price, . 
Bought  with  the  loss  of  Paradise. 
As  happy  ignorance  declined. 
And  reason  rose  upon  his  mind. 
Romantic  hopes  and  fond  desires 
(Sparks  of  the  soul's  immortal  fires) 
Kindled  within  his  breast  the  rage 
To  breathe  through  every  future  age, 
To  clasp  the  flitting  shade  of  fame, 
To  build  an  everlasting  name, 
O'erleap  the  narrow  vulgar  span, 
And  live  beyond  the  life  of  man. 

Then  Nature's  charms  his  heart  possess'd. 
And  Nature's  glory  fiU'd  his  breast : 
The  sweet  Spring-morning's  infant  rays, 
Meridian  Summer's  youthful  blaze, 
Maturer  Autumn's  evening  mild. 
And  hoary  VV^inter's  midnight  wild, 
Awoke  his  eye,  inspired  his  tongue ; 
For  every  scene  he  lo\c(l,  he  sung. 
Rude  were  liis  songs,  and  simple  truth, 
Till  Boyhood  blossom'd  into  Youth ; 
Then  nobler  themes  his  fancy  fired. 
To  bolder  flights  his  soul  aspired  ; 
And  as  the  new  moon's  opening  eye 
Broadens  and  brightens  through  the  sky, 
From  the  dim  streak  of  western  light 
To  the  full  orb  that  rules  the  night ; 


Thus,  gathering  lustre  in  its  race. 

And  shining  through  unlwunded  space, 

From  earth  to  heaven  his  Genius  soar'd. 

Time  and  eternity  explored. 

And  hail'd,  Avhere'er  its  footsteps  trod. 

In  Nature's  temple.  Nature's  God  : 

Or  pierced  the  human  breast,  to  scan 

The  hidden  majesty  of  Man  ; 

Man's  hidden  weakness  too  descried, 

His  glory,  grandeur,  meanness,  pride  : 

Pursued  along  their  erring  course 

The  streams  of  passion  to  their  source : 

Or  in  the  mind's  creation  sought  ♦ 

New  stars  of  fancy,  worlds  of  thought. 

— Yet  still  through  all  his  strains  would  flow 

A  tone  of  uncomplaining  woe, 

Kind  as  the  tear  in  Pity's  eye. 

Soft  as  the  slumbering  Infant's  sigh. 

So  sweetly,  exquisitely  wild. 

It  spake  the  Muse  of  Sorrow's  child. 

O  Pillow !  then,  when  light  withdrew. 
To  thee  the  fond  enthusiast  flew ; 
On  thee,  in  pensive  mood  reclined. 
He  pour'd  his  contemplative  mind. 
Till  o'er  his  eyes  with  mild  control 
Sleep  like  a  soft  enchantment  stole, 
Charm'd  into  life  his  airy  schemes. 
And  realized  his  waking  dreams. 

Soon  from  those  waking  dreams  he  woke, 
The  fairy  spell  of  fancy  broke  ; 
In  vain  he  breathed  a  soul  of  fire 
Through  every  chord  that  strung  his  lyre. 
No  friendly  echo  cheer'd  his  tongue  ; 
Amidst  the  wilderness  he  sung; 
Louder  and  bolder  bards  were  crown'd, 
Wliose  dissonance  his  music  drown'd ; 
The  public  ear,  the  public  voice. 
Despised  his  song,  denied  his  choice. 
Denied  a  name, — a  life  in  death. 
Denied — a  bubble  and  a  breath. 

Stript  of  his  fondest,  dearest  claim. 
And  disinherited  of  fame. 
To  thee,  O  Pillow !  thee  alone. 
He  made  his  silent  anguish  knowTi ; 
His  haughty  spirit  scom'd  the  blow 
That  laid  his  high  ambition  low  ; 
But,  ah  I  his  looks  assumed  in  vain 
A  cold  ineffable  disdain, 
W^hile  deep  he  cherish'd  in  his  breast 
The  scorpion  that  consumed  his  rest 

Yet  other  secret  griefs  had  he, 
O  Pillow !  only  told  to  thee  : 
Say,  did  not  hopeless  love  intrude 
On  his  poor  bosom's  solitude  ? 
Perhaps  on  thy  soft  lap  reclined. 
In  dreams  the  cruel  Fair  was  kind, 
That  more  intensely  he  might  know 
The  bitterness  of  waking  woe. 

Whate'er  those  pangs  from  me  oonceal'd. 
To  thee  in  midnight  groans  reveal'd. 
They  stung  remembrance  to  despair; 
"  A  wounded  Spirit  who  can  bear?" 

310 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


127 


Meanwhile  Disease,  with  slow  decay, 
Moulder'd  his  feeble  frame  away  ; 
And  as  his  evening  sun  declined, 
The  shadows  deepen'd  o'er  his  mind. 
What  doubts  and  terrors  then  possess'd 
The  dark  dominion  of  his  breast ! 
How  did  delirous  fancy  dwell 
On  Madness,  Suicide,  and  Hell ! 
There  was  on  earth  no  Power  to  save : 
— But,  as  he  shudder'd  o'er  the  grave, 
He  saw  from  realms  of  light  descend 
The  friend  of  him  who  has  no  friend, 
Rehgion  I — Her  almighty  breath 
Rebuked  the  winds  and  waves  of  death  ; 
She  bade  the  storm  of  frenzy  cease, 
And  smiled  a  calm",  and  whisper'd  peace : 
Amidst  that  calm  of  sweet  repose, 
To  Heaven  his  gentle  Spirit  rose. 


VERSES 

3  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE  JOSEPH  BROV/NE,  OE  LO- 
THERSDALE,  ONE  OF  THE  PEOPLE  CALLED  QUAKERS, 
■WHO  HAD  SUFFERED  A  LONG  CONFINEMENT  L\  THE 
CASTLE  OF  YORK,  AND  LOSS  OF  ALL  HIS  WORLDLY 
PROPERVY,  FOR  CONSCIENCE  SAKE. 

"SpiRiT,leave  thine  house  of  clay; 
Lingering  Dust,  resign  thy  breath ! 
Spirit,  cast  thy  chains  away  ; 
Dust,  be  thou  dissolved  in  death ! " 


Thus  thy  Guardian  Angel  spoke, 
As  he  vvatch'd  thy  dying  bed  ; 
As  the  bonds  of  life  he  broke. 
And  the  ransom'd  captive  fled. 

"  Prisoner,  long  detain'd  below  ; 
Prisoner,  now  with  freedom,  blest ; 
Welcome,  from  a  world  of  Avoe, 
Welcome  to  a  land  of  rest ! " 

Tims  thy  Guardian  Angel  sang. 
As  he  bore  thy  soul  on  high  , 
While  with  Hallelujahs  rang 
All  the  region  of  the  sky. 

— Ye  that  mourn  a  Father's  loss, 
Ye  thai  weep  a  Friend  no  more. 
Call  to  mind  the  Christian  cross 
Which  your  Friend,  your  Father  bore. 

Grief  and  penury  and  pain 

Still  attended  on  his  way, 

And  Oppression's  scourge  and  chain, 

IMore  unmerciful  than  they. 

Yet,  while  travelling  in  distres.s 
('T  was  the  eldest  curse  of  sin) 
Through  the  world's  waste  wilderness. 
He  had  paradise  within. 

And  along  that  vale  of  tears, 
Which  his  humble  footsteps  trod. 
Still  a  shining  path  appears, 
Where  the  Mourner  walk'd  with  God. 


o 


Till  his  Master,  from  above, 
When  the  promised  hour  was  come, 
Sent  the  chariot  of  his  love 
To  convey  the  Wanderer  home. 

Saw  ye  not  the  wheels  of  fire, 
And  the  steeds  that  cleft  the  wind  ? 
Saw  ye  not  his  soul  aspire, 
When  his  mantle  dropp'd  behind  ? 

Ye  who  caught  it  as  it  fell. 
Bind  that  mantle  round  your  breast ; 
So  in  you  his  meekness  dwell, 
So  on  you  his  spirit  rest! 

Yet,  rejoicing  in  his  lot. 

Still  shall  Memory  love  to  weep 

O'er  the  venerable  spot 

Where  his  dear  cold  relics  sleep. 

Grave !  the  guardian  of  his  dust. 
Grave  !  the  treasury  of  the  skies. 
Every  atom  of  thy  trust 
Rests  in  hope  again  to  rise. 

Hark !  the  judgment-trumpet  calls — 
"  Soul,  rebuild  thine  house  of  clay : 
Immortality  thy  walls, 
And  Eternity  thy  day  ! " 


THE  THUNDER-STORxM. 

O  FOR  Evening's  browTiest  shade ! 

Where  the  breezes  play  by  stealth 
In  the  forest-cinctured  glade. 

Round  the  hermitage  of  Health  : 
While  the  noon-bright  mountains  blaze 
In  the  sun's  tormenting  rays. 

O'er  the  sick  and  sultry  plains, 
Through  the  dim  delirious  air, 

Agonizing  silence  reigns. 

And  the  wanness  of  despair: 

Nature  faints  with  fervent  heat, 

Ah !  her  pulse  hath  ceased  to  beat. 

Now,  in  deep  and  dreadful  gloom. 
Clouds  on  clouds  portentous  spread, 

Black  as  if  the  day  of  doom 

Hung  o'er  Nature's  shrinking  head 

Lo !  the  lightning  breaks  from  Iiigh, 

— God  is  coming ! — God  is  nigh ! 

Hear  ye  not  his  chariot-wheels. 
As  the  mighty  thunder  rolls  ? 

Nature,  startled  Nature  reels. 
From  the  centre  to  the  poles ; 

Tremble  1 — Ocean,  Earth,  and  Sky, 

Tremble  I — God  is  passing  by  ! 

Darkness,  v»ild  with  horror,  forms 
His  mysterioi^j.  /uUuig-place ; 

Should  He,  from  his  ark  of  storms, 
Rend  the  veil,  and  show  his  lace, 

At  the  judgment  of  his  eye, 

All  the  universe  would  die. 

311 


128 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Brighter,  broader  lightnings  flash, 
Hail  and  rain  tempestuous  fall ; 

Louder,  deeper  thunders  crash, 
Desolation  threatens  all  ; 

Struggling  Nature  gasps  for  breath 

In  the  agony  of  death. 

God  of  Vengeance,  from  above, 
While  thine  awful  bolts  are  hurl'd, 

O  remember  thou  art  Love  ! 
Spare  !  O  spare  a  guilty  world ! 

Stay  Thy  flaming  wrath  awhile, 

See  Thy  bow  of  promise  smile. 

Welcome  in  the  eastern  cloud, 
Messenger  of  Mercy  still  ; 

Now,  ye  winds,  proclaim  aloud, 

"  Peace  on  Earth,  to  Man  good-will.' 

Nature !  God's  repenting  Child, 

See  thy  Parent  reconciled. 

Hark !  the  nightingale,  afar. 
Sweetly  sings  the  sun  to  rest, 

And  awakes  the  evening-star 
In  the  rosy-tinted  west  : 

While  the  moon's  enchanting  eye 

Opens  Paradise  on  high. 

Coorand  tranquil  is  the  night, 
Nature's  sore  afflictions  cease. 

For  the  storm,  that  spent  its  might, 
Was  a  covenant  of  peace ; 

Vengeance  drops  her  harmless  rod  : 

Mercy  is  the  Power  ok  God. 


ODE  TO  THE  VOLUNTEERS  OF  BRITAIN, 

ON  THE  PROSPECT  OF  INVASION. 

O  FOR  the  death  of  those 
Who  for  their  country  die,     ^ 
Sink  on  her  bosom  to  repose, 
And  triumph  where  they  lie ! 

How  beautiful  in  death 
The  Warrior's  corpse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  fond  Affection's  breath, 
And  bathed  in  Woman's  tears ! 

Their  loveliest  native  earth 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave  ; 
In  the  dear  land  that  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 

— But  the  wild  waves  shall  sw"eep 
Britannia's  foes  away. 
And  the  blue  monsters  of  the  deep 
Be  surfeited  with  prey. — 

No ! — they  have  'scaped  the  waves, 
'Scaped  the  sea-monsters'  maws  ; 
They  come  !  but  O,  shall  Gallic  Slaves 
Give  English  Freemen  laws  ? 

By  Alfred's  Spirit,  No! 

— Ring,  ring  the  loud  alarms ; 

Ye  drums  awake,  ye  clarions^blow, 

Ye  lieralds,  shout  "  To  arms  !  *' 


To  arms  our  Heroes  fly  ; 
And,  leading  on  their  lines, 
The  British  Banner,  in  the  sky 
The  star  of  conquest  shines. 

The  lowering  battle  forms 

Its  terrible  array ; 

Like  clashing  clouds  in  mountain-storms. 

That  thunder  on  their  way. 

The  rushing  armies  meet  ; 
And  while  they  pour  their  breath, 
The  strong  earth  shudders  at  their  feet, 
The  day  grows  dim  with  death. 

— Ghosts  of  the  mighty  dead ! 
Your  children's  hearts  inspire ; 
And  while  they  on  your  ashes  tread. 
Rekindle  all  your  fire. 

The  dead  to  life  return ; 

Our  Fathers'  spirits  rise  ; 

— My  brethren,  in  your  breasts  they  bum, 

They  sparkle  in  your  eyes. 

Now  lanch  upon  the  foe 
The  lightning  of  your  rage  ; 
Strike,  strike  the  assailing  giants  low, 
The  Titans  of  the  age. 

They  yield, — they  break, — they  fly; 
The  victory  is  won  : 

Pursue  ! — they  faint, — they  fall, — they  die 
O  stay  I — the  work  is  done. 

Spirit  of  Vengeance  !  rest : 
Sweet  Mercy  cries,  "  Forbear ! " 
She  clasps  the  vanquish'd  to  her  breast, 
Thou  wilt  not  pierce  them  there  ? 

— Thus  vanish. Britain's  foes 
From  her  consuming  eye  ; 
But  rich  be  the  reward  of  those 
Who  conquer, — those  who  die. 

d'ershadowing  laurels  deck 

The  living  Hero's  brows  ; 

But  lovelier  wreaths  entwine  his  neck. 

His  children  and  his  spouse. 

Exulting  o'er  his  lot, 

The  dangers  he  has  braved. 

He  clasps  the  dear  ones,  hails  the  cot, 

Which  his  own  valor  saved. 

Daughters  of  Albion,  weep  : 

On  this  triumphant  plain 

Your  fathers,  husbands,  brethren  sleej) 

For  you  and  freedom  slain. 

O  gently  close  the  eye 
That  loved  to  look  on  you  ; 
O  seal  the  lip  whose  earliest  sigh, 
"WTiose  latest  breath  was  true  : 

With  knots  of  sweetest  flowers 

Their  wanding-shect  perfume ; 

And  wash  their  w^ounds  with  true-love  showei 

And  dress  them  for  the  tomb. 

312 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


129 


For  beautiful  in  death 
The  warrior's  corpse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  found  Affection's  breath, 
And  bathed  in  woman's  tears. 

— Give  me  the  death  of  those 
Who  for  their  country  die  ; 
And  O  be  mine  hke  their  repose, 
When  cold  and  low  they  lie  I" 

Their  loveliest  mother  Earth 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave  ; 
In  her  sweet  lap  who  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 


THE  VIGIL  OF  ST.  MARK. 

Returning  from  their  evening  walk. 

On  yonder  ancient  stile, 
In  sweet,  romantic,  tender  talk. 

Two  lovers  paused  awhile  : 

Edmund,  the  monarch  of  the  dale. 

All  conscious  of  his  powers  ; 
Ella,  the  lily  of  the  vale, 

The  rose  of  Auburn's  bowers. 

In  airy  Love's  delightful  bands 

He  held  her  heart  in  vain  ; 
The  Nymph  denied  her  willing  hands 

To  Hymen's  awful  chain. 

"  Ah !  why,"  said  he,  "  our  bliss  delay  ? 

Mine  Ella,  why  so  cold  ? 
Those  who  but  love  from  day  to  day, 

From  day  to  day  grow  old. 

"  The  bounding  arrow  cleaves  the  sky, 

Nor  leaves  a  trace  behind ; 
And  single  lives,  hke  arrows  fly, 

— They  vanish  through  the  wind. 

"  In  Wedlock's  sweet  endearing  lot 

Let  us  improve  the  scene. 
That  some  may  be,  when  we  are  not, 

To  tell — that  we  have  been." 

"  'T  is  now,"  replied  the  village  Belle, 
"  Saint  Mark's  mysterious  eve  ; 

And  all  that  old  traditions  tell 
I  tremblingly  believe  : — 

"  How,  when  the  midnight  signal  tolls 

Along  the  church-yard  green, 
A  mournful  train  of  sentenced  souls 

In  winding-sheets  are  seen. 

"  The  ghosts  of  all  whom  Death  shall  doom 

Within  the  coming  year, 
In  pale  procession  walk  the  gloom. 

Amid  the  silence  drear. 

"  If  Edmund,  bold  in  conscious  might. 

By  love  severely  tried. 
Can  brave  the  terrors  of  to-night, 

Ella  will  be  his  bride." 
40  2B 


She  spake, — and,  like  the  nimble  fa\ATi, 
From  Edmund's  presence  fled  : 

He  sought,  across  the  rural  lawTi, 
The  dwelling  of  the  dead  j 

That  silent,  solemn,  simple  spot. 
The  mouldering  realm  of  peace. 

Where  human  passions  are  fJjrgot, 
Wliere  human  follies  cease. 

The  gliding  moon  through  heaven  serene 

Pursued  her  tranquil  way. 
And  shed  o'er  all  the  sleeping  scene 

A  soft  nocturnal  day. 

"With  swelhng  heart  and  eager  feet 
Young  Edmund  gain'd  the  church, 

And  chose  his  solitary  seal 
Within  the  dreadful  porch. 

Thick,  threatening  clouds  assembled  soon, 
Their  dragon  wings  display'd  ; 

Eclipsed  the  slow  retinng  moon. 
And  quench'd  the  stars  in  shada 

Amid  the  deep  abyss  of  gloom 

No  ray  of  beauty  smiled, 
Save,  glistening  o'er  some  haunted  tomb, 

The  glow-worm's  lustre  wild. 

The  village  watch-dogs  bay'd  around, 
The  long  grass  whistled  drear, 

The  steeple  trembled  to  the  ground, 
Ev'n  Edmund  quaked  with  fear. 

All  on  a  sudden  died  the  blast. 

Dumb  horror  chill'd  the  air, 
While  Nature  seem'd  to  pause  aghast, 

In  uttermost  despair. 

— Twelve  times  the  midnight  herald  toll  d : 

As  oft  did  Edmund  start  ; 
For  every  stroke  fell  dead  and  cold 

Upon  his  fainting  heart. 

Then  glaring  through  the  ghastly  gloom. 

Along  the  church-yard  green, 
The  destined  victims  of  the  tomb 

In  winding-sheets  were  seen. 

In  that  strange  moment  Edmund  stood, 

Sick  with  severe  surprise  ; 
While  creeping  liorror  drank  his  blood 

And  fix'd  his  flinty  eyes. 

He  saw  the  secrets  of  the  grave ; 

He  saw  the  face  of  Death  ; 
No  pitying  power  appear'd  to  save — 

He  gasp'd  away  his  breath. 

Yet  still  the  scene  his  soul  beguiled 

And  every  spectre  cast 
A  look,  unutterably  wild, 

On  Edmund  as  they  pass'd. 

All  on  the  ground  entranced  he  la> 

At  length  the  vision  broke; 
— When,  lo! — a  kiss,  as  cold  as  clay 

The  slumbering  youth  awe  ke. 

313 


130 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  moment  through  a  rifted  cloud 

The  darting  moon  display'd, 
Robed  in  a  melancholy  shroud, 

The  image  cf  a  maid. 

Her  dusky  veil  aside  she  threw, 

And  show'd  a  face  most  fair  ; 
" — My  Love!  my  Ella!"  Edmund  flew. 

And  clasp'd  the  yielding  air. 

"  Ha !  who  art  thou  ? "  His  cheek  grew  pale  ; 

A  well-known  voice  replied, 
"  Ella,  the  lily  of  the  vale  ; 

Ella — thy  destined  bride." 

To  u-in  his  neck,  her  airy  arms 

The  pallid  phantom  spread  ; 
Recoiling  from  her  blasted  charms, 

The  affrighted  lover  fled. 

To  shun  the  visionary  maid 

His  speed  outstript  the  wind ; 
But, — though  unseen  to  move, — the  shade 

Was  evermore  behind. 

So  Death's  unerring  arrows  glide. 

Yet  seem  suspended  still  ; 
Nor  pause,  nor  shrink,  nor  turn  aside. 

But  smite,  subdue,  and  kill. 

O'er  many  a  mountain,  moor,  and  vale, 

On  that  tremendous  night. 
The  ghost  of  EHa,  wild  and  pale. 

Pursued  her  lover's  flight. 

But  when  the  dawn  began  to  gleam, 

Ere  yet  the  morning  shone, 
She  vanished  like  a  nightmare-dream, 

And  Edmund  stood  alone. 

Three  days,  bewilder'd  and  forlorn, 

He  sought  his  home  in  vain ; 
At  length  he  hail'd  the  hoary  thorn 

That  crown'd  his  native  plain. 

"T  was  evening ; — all  the  air  Avas  balm, 

The  heavens  serenely  clear  ; 
When  the  soft  music  of  a  psalm 

Came  pensive  o'er  his  ear. 

Then  sunk  his  heart ; — a  strange  surmise 

Made  all  his  blood  run  cold  : 
He  flew, — a  funeral  met  his  eyes : 

He  paused, — a  death-bell  toU'd. 

"  'T  is  she  !  't  is  she  !  " — He  burst  away ; 

And  bending  o'er  the  spot 
Wliere  all  that  once  was  Ella  lay, 

He  all  beside  forgot. 

A  maniac  now,  in  dumb  despair, 

With  love-bewildered  mien, 
He  wanders,  weeps,  and  watches  there, 

Among  the  hilloclis  green. 

And  every  Eve  of  pale  St.  Mark, 

As  village  hinds  relate. 
He  walks  with  Ella  in  the  dark. 

And  reads  the  rolls  of  Fate. 


HANNAH. 

At  fond  sixteen  my  roving  heart 
Was  pierced  by  Love's  delightful  dart  ; 
Keen  transport  ihrobb'd  through  every  vem, 
— I  never  felt  so  sweet  a  pain ! 

Where  circling  woods  embower'd  the  glade, 
I  met  the  dear  romantic  maid  . 
I  stole  her  hand, — it  shrunk, — but  no ; 
I  would  not  let  my  captive  go. 

With  all  the  fervency  of  youth. 
While  passion  told  the  tale  of  truth, 
I  mark'd  my  Hannah's  downcast  eye, 
'T  was  Idnd,  but  beautifully  shy. 

Not  -with  a  warmer,  purer  ray, 
The  sun,  enamour'd,  wooes  young  May  ; 
Nor  May,  with  softer  maiden  grace. 
Turns  from  the  Sun  her  blushing  face 

But,  swifter  than  the  frighted  dove, 
Fled  the  gay  morning  of  my  love ; 
Ah !  that  so  bright  a  morn,  so  soon, 
Should  vanish  in  so  dark  a  noon. 

The  angel  of  Affliction  rose, 
And  in  his  grasp  a  thousand  woes ; 
He  pour'd  his  vial  on  ray  head, 
And  all  the  heaven  of  rapture  fled. 

Yet,  in  the  glory  of  ray  pride, 

I  stood, — and  all  his  wrath  defied  ; 

I  stood, — though  whiilvvinds  shook  ray  brain, 

And  lightnings  cleft  my  soul  in  twain. 

I  shunn'd  my  nymph ; — and  knew  not  why 
I  durst  not  meet  her  gentle  eye  ; 
I  shunn'd  her — for  I  could  not  bear 
To  marry  her  to  my  despair. 

Yet,  sick  at  heart  with  hope  delay'd. 
Oft  the  dear  image  of  tliat  maid 
Glanced,  like  the  rainbow,  o'er  my  mind 
And  promised  happiness  behind. 

The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  in  my  breast 
The  halcyon  Peace  rebuilt  her  nest : 
The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  clear  and  mild 
The  sea  of  Youth  and  Pleasure  smiled. 

'T  was  on  the  merry  morn  of  May, 
To  Haimah's  cot  I  took  my  way  : 
My  eager  hopes  were  on  the  wing. 
Like  swallows  sporting  in  the  Spring. 

Then  as  I  climb'd  the  mountains  o'er, 
I  lived  my  wooing  days  once  more ; 
And  fancy  sketch'd  my  married  lot, 
My  wife,  my  children,  and  my  cot. 

I  saw  the  village  steeple  rise, — 
My  soul  sprang,  sparkling,  in  my  eyes : 
The  rural  bells  rang  sweet  and  clear, — 
My  fond  lieart  listen'd  in  mine  ear. 

3U 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


131 


I  reach'd  the  hamlet : — all  was  gay ; 
I  love  a  rustic  holiday. 
I  met  a  wedding, — siepp'd  aside  ; 
It  pass'd — my  Hannah  was  the  bride. 

There  is  a  grief  that  cannot  feel ; 

It  leaves  a  wound  that  will  not  heal ; 

IVIy  heart  grew  cold, — it  felt  not  then : 

When  shall  it  cease  to  feel  again  ? 


A  FIELD  FLOWER. 

On  finding  one  in  full  bloom,  on  Christmas  Day,  1803. 

There  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower, 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 
That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine. 
Race  after  race  their  honors  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear, 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 
Wreathes  the  whole  circle  of  the  year. 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 
To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charms. 
Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 
And  twines  December's  arms. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom, 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale. 
O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 
The  violet  in  the  vale.  - 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 
Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill. 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 

Within  the  garden's  culttned  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed ; 
And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 


Tlie  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem, 
The  wild-bee  murmurs  on  its  breast. 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem, 
Light  o'er  the  sky-lark's  nest. 

'Tis  Flora's  page ; — in  every  place, 
In  every  season  fresh  and  fair. 
It  opens  with  perennial  grace. 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 

On  waste  and  W'oodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise  ; 
The  Rose  has  but  a  summer  reign, 
The  Daisy  never  dies. 


THE  Sx\OW-DROP. 

Winter,  retire, 

Thy  reign  is  past  ; 

Hoary  Sire, 

Yield  the  sceptre  of  thy  sway, 

Sound  thy  trumpet  in  the  blast, 

And  call  thy  storms  away. 

Winter,  retire ; 

Wherefore  do  thy  wheels  delay  ? 

Mount  the  chariot  of  thine  ire, 

And  quit  the  realms  of  day ; 

On  thy  state 

Whirlwinds  wait  ; 

And  blood-shot  meteoi-s  lend  thee  light 

Hence  to  dreary  arctic  regions 

Summon  thy  terrific  legions  ; 

Hence  to  caves  of  northern  night 

Speed  thy  flight. 

From  halcyon  seas 

And  purer  skies, 

O  southern  breeze!- 

Awake,  arise ; 

Breath  of  heaven,  benignly  blow, 

Melt  the  snow ; 

Breath  of  heaven,  unchain  the  floods. 

Warm  the  woods, 

And  make  the  mountains  flow. 

Auspicious  to  the  Muse's  prayer. 

The  freshening  gale 

Embalms  the  vale. 

And  breathes  enchantment  through  the  air  ■ 

On  its  wing 

Floats  the  Spring, 

With  glowing  eye,  and  golden  hair : 

Dark  before  her  angel-form 

She  drives  the  Demon  of  the  storm. 

Like  Gladness  chasing  Care. 

Winter's  gloomy  night  withdrawn, 
Lo  !  the  young  romantic  Hours 
Search  the  hill,  the  dale,  the  lawn. 
To  behold  the  Snow-drop  white 
Start  to  light. 

And  shine  in  Flora's  desert  bowers ; 
Beneath  the  vernal  dawn. 
The  Morning  Star  of  Flowers. 

O  welcome  to  our  isle. 
Thou  Messenger  of  Peace  ! 
At  whose  bewitching  smile 
The  embattled  tempests  cease  : 
Emblem  of  Innocence  and  Truth, 
First-born  of  Nature's  womb, 
When  strong  in  renovated  youth, 
She  bursts  from  Winter's  tomb  ; 
Thy  parent's  eye  hath  shed 
A  precious  dew-drop  on  thine  head. 
Frail  as  a  mother's  tear 
Upon  her  infant's  face. 
When  ardent  hope  to  tender  fear, 
And  anxious  love,  gives  place. 
But,  lo !  the  dew-drop  flits  away, 
The  sun  salutes  thee  with  a  ray 

315 


132 


lAIOXTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Warm  as  a  mother's  kiss 
Upon  lier  infant's  cheek, 
When  the  heart  bounds  with  bliss, 
And  joy  that  cannot  speak. 

When  I  meet  thee  by  the  way, 

Like  a  pretty  sportive  child, 

On  the  winter-wasted  wild, 

With  thy  darling  breeze  at  play. 

Opening  to  the  radiant  sky 

All  the  sweetness  of  thine  eye ; 

— Or  bright  with  sun-beams,  fresh  with  showers, 

O  thou  Fairy-Queen  of  flowers  I 

Watch  thee  o'er  the  plain  advance 

At  the  head  of  Flora's  dance  ; 

Simple  Snow-drop,  then  in  thee 

All  thy  sister-train  I  see  : 

.Every  brilliant  bud  that  blows, 

From  the  blue-bell  to  the  rose : 

All  the  beauties  that  appear 

On  the  bosom  of  the  Year, 

All  that  wreathe  the  locks  of  Spring, 

Summer's  ardent  breath  perfume. 

Or  on  the  lap  of  Autumn  bloom, 

— All  to  thee  their  tribute  bring, 

Exhale  their  incense  at  thy  shrine, 

— Their  hues,  their  odors,  all  are  thine. 

For  while  thy  humble  form  I  view. 

The  Muse's  keen  prophetic  sight 

Brings  fair  Futurity  to  light. 

And  Fancy's  magic  makes  the  vision  true. 

— There  is  a  Winter  in  my  soul. 

The  winter  of  despair  ; 

O  when  shall  Spring  its  rage  control  ? 

When  shall  the  Snow-drop  blossom  there? 

Cold  gleams  of  comfort  sometimes  dart 

A  dawn  of  glory  on  my  heart. 

But  quickly  pass  away  : 

Thus  Northern-lights  the  gloom  adorn. 

And  give  the  promise  of  a  morn 

That  never  turns  to  day ! 

But,  hark !  methinks  I  hear 

A  small  still  whisper  in  mine  ear ; 

"  Rash  youth,  repent : 

Afflictions,  from  above. 

Are  angels  sent 

On  embassies  of  love. 

A  fiery  legion  at  thy  birth 

Of  chastening  woes  were  given. 

To  pluck  the  flowers  of  hope  from  earth. 

And  plant  them  high 

O'er  yonder  sky, 

Transform  a  to  stars, — and  fix'd  in  heaven." 


THE  OCEAN. 

Written  at  Scarborough,  in  the  Summer  of  1805. 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,'  the  rocks  and  the  shores! 

Thou  wide-rolling  Ocean,  all  hail  I 

Nov*^  brilliant  with  sunbeams,  and  dimpled  with  oars. 

Now  dark  with  the  fresh-blowing  gale, 

While  soft  o'er  thy  bosom  the  cloud-shadows  sail, 

1  Scarborough  Castle. 


And  the  silver- wing'd  sea-fowl  on  high, 
Like  meteors  bespangle  the  sky. 
Or  dive  in  the  gulf,  or  triumphantly  ride. 
Like  foam  on  the  surges,  the  swans  of  the  tide. 


From  the  tumult  and  smoke  of  the  city  set  free. 

With  eager  and  awful  delight. 

From  the  crest  of  the  mountain  I  gaze  upon  thee  - 

I  gaze, — and  am  changed  at  the  sic  ht ; 

For  mine  eye  is  illumined,  my  Genius  takes  flight, 

JMy  soul,  like  the  sun,  with  a  glance 

Embraces  the  boundless  expanse, 

And  moves  on  thy  waters,  wherever  they  roll. 

From  the  day-darting  zone  to  the  night-shadovv'd  pole 

INIy  spirit  descends  where  the  day-spring  is  born. 

Where  the  billows  are  rubies  on  fire, 

And  the  breezes  that  rock  the  light  cradle  of  morn 

Are  sweet  as  the  Phcenix's  pyre  : 

O  regions  of  beauty,  of  love,  and  desire ! 

O  gardens  of  Eden !  in  vain 

Placed  far  on  the  fathomless  main. 

Where  Nature  with  Innocence  dwelt  in  her  youth. 

When  pure  was  her  heart,  and  unbroken  her  truth 


But  now  the  fair  rivers  of  Paradise  wind 
Through  countries  and  kingdoms  o'erthrown; 
Where  the  giant  of  tyranny  crushes  mankind, 
Where  he  reigns, — and  will  soon  reign  alone  ; 
For  wide  and  more  wide,  o'er  the  sunbeaming  zone 
He  stretches  his  hundred-fold  arms, 
Despoiling,  destroying  its  charms  ; 
Beneath  his  broad  footstep  the  Ganges  is  dry. 
And  the  mountains  recoil  from  the  flash  of  his  eye. 

Thus  the  pestilent  Upas,  the  Demon  of  trees, 

Its  boughs  o'er  the  wilderness  spreads. 

And  with  livid  contagion  polluting  the  breeze, 

Its  mildewing  influence  sheds  ; 

The  birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  flowers  in  their  beds 

Are  slain  by  its  venomous  breath,  * 

That  darkens  the  noonday  with  death. 

And  pale  ghosts  of  travellers  v.ander  around. 

While  their  mouldering  skeletons  whiten  the  groimd- 

Ah !  why  hath  Jehovah,  in  forming  the  world. 

With  the  waters  divided  the  land, 

His  ramparts  of  rocks  round  the  continent  hurl'd. 

And  cradled  the  Deep  in  his  hand. 

If  man  may  transgress  his  eternal  command, 

And  leap  o'er  the  bounds  of  his  birth. 

To  ravage  the  uttermost  earth. 

And  violate  nations  and  realms  that  should  be 

Distinct  as  the  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea? 

There  are,  gloomy  Ocean,  a  brotherless  clan, 

Who  traverse  thy  banishing  waves. 

The  poor  disinherited  outcasts  of  man. 

Whom  Avarice  coins  into  slaves. 

From  the  homes  of  their  kindred,  their  forefathers' , 

graves, 
Love,  friendship,  and  conjugal  bliss. 
They  are  dragg'd  on  the  hoary  abyss  ; 
The  shark  hears  their  shrieks,  and  ascending  to-day 
Demands  of  the  spoiler  his  share  of  the  prey. 

316 


I 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


133 


Then  J03'  to  the  tempest  that  -whelms  them  beneath, 

And  makes  their  destruction  its  sport  ; 

But  woe  to  the  winds  that  propitiously  breathe. 

And  waft  them  in  safety  to  port, 

Where  the  vultures  and  vampires  of  Mammon  resort; 

Where  Europe  exultingly  drains 

The  life-blood  from  Africa's  veins  ; 

Where  man  rules  o'er  man  with  a  merciless  rod. 

And  spurns  at  his  footstool  the  image  of  God. 

The  hour  is  approaching, — a  terrible  hour ! 
And  Vengeance  is  bending  her  bow ; 
Already  tlie  clouds  of  the  hurricane  lower, 
And  the  rock-rending  whirlwinds  blow: 
Back  rolls  the  huge  Ocean,  Hell  opens  below : 
The  floods  return  headlong, — they  sweep 
The  slave-cultured  lands  to  the  deep. 
In  a  moment  entomb'd  in  the  horrible  void, 
By  their  Maker  Himself  in  his  anger  destroy'd. 

Shall  this  be  the  fate  of  the  cane-planted  isles. 

More  lovely  than  clouds  in  the  west, 

When  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean  descending  in  smiles, 

Sinks  softly  and  sweetly  to  rest  ? 

— No ! — Father  of  mercy  !  befriend  the  opprest ; 

At  the  voice  of  thy  Gospel  of  peace 

May  the  sorrows  of  Africa  cease ; 

And  slave  and  his  master  devoutly  unite 

To  walk  in  thy  freedom,  and  dwell  in  thy  light  !"i 

As  homeward  my  weary-wing'd  Fancy  extends 

Her  star-lighted  course  through  the  skies. 

High  over  the  mighty  Atlantic  ascends, 

And  turns  upon  Europe  her  eyes : 

Ah,  me  !  what  new  prospects,  new  horrors  arise  ? 

I  see  the  war-tempested  flood 

All  foaming,  and  panting  with  blood  ; 

The  panic-struck  Ocean  in  agony  roars. 

Rebounds  from  the  battle,  and  flies  to  his  shores. 

For  Britannia  is  wielding  the  trident  to-day, 

Consuming  her  foes  in  her  ire, 

And  hurling  her  thunder  with  absolute  sway 

From  her  wave-ruling  chariots  of  fire  : 

— She  triumphs ; — the  winds  and  the  waters  conspire. 

To  spread  her  invincible  name  ; 

— The  universe  rings  with  her  fame ;   ^ 

— But  the  cries  of  the  fatherless  mix  with  her  praise. 

And  the  tears  of  the  widow  are  shed  on  her  bays. 

0  Britain !  dear  Britain !  the  land  of  my  birth ; 
O  Isle,  most  enchantingly  fair ! 
Thou  Pearl  of  the  Ocean !  thou  Gem  of  the  Earth ! 
0  my  Mother !  my  Mother !  beware  ; 
For  wealth  is  a  phantom,  and  empire  a  snare : 
O  let  not  thy  birth-right  be  sold 
For  reprobate  glory  and  gold : 
Thy  distant  dominions  like  wild  graftings  shoot, 
They  weigh  down  thy  trunk, — they  will  tear  op  thy 
root : — 

The  root  of  thine  Oak,  O  my  country !  that  stands 

Rock-planted,  and  flourishing  free  ; 

Its  branches  are  stretch'd  o'er  the  uttermost  lands. 

And  its  shadow  eclipses  the  sea  : 

The  blood  of  our  ancestors  nourish'd  the  tree ; 


1  Alluding  to  the  glorious  success  of  the  Moravian  Mission- 
axies  among  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies. 

2B2 


From  their  tomlis,  from  their  ashes  it  sprung ; 
Its  boughs  with  their  trophies  are  hung : 
Their  spirit  dwells  in  it: — and,  hark!  for  it  spoke, 
The  voice  of  our  fathers  ascends  from  their  Oak. 

"  Ye  Britons,  who  dwell  where  we  conquer'd  of  old. 

Who  inherit  our  battle-field  graves ; 

Though  poor  were  your  fathers, — gigantic  and  bold, 

We  were  not,  we  could  not  be,  slaves  ; 

But  firm  as  our  rocks,  and  as  free  as  our  waves. 

The  spears  of  the  Romans  we  broke, 

We  never  stoop'd  under  their  yoke  : 

In  the  shipwreck  of  nations  we  stood  up  alone, — 

The  world  was  great  Caesar's — but  Britain  our  own. 

"  For  ages  and  ages,  with  barbarous  foes. 

The  Saxon,  Norwegian,  and  Gaul, 

We  wrestled,  were  foil'd,  were  cast  do\^Ti,  but  we  rose 

With  new  vigor,  new  life,  from  each  fall  : 

By  all  we  were  conquer  d — We  conquer'd  them  ALL. 

— The  cruel,  the  cannibal  mind, 

We  soften'd,  subdued,  and  refined  ; 

Bears,  wolves,  and  sea-monsters,  they  rush'd  from 

their  den ; 
We  taught  them,  we  tamed  them,  we  turned  them 

to  men. 

"  Love  led  the  wild  hordes  in  his  flower-woven  bands, 

The  tenderest,  strongest  of  chains  : 

Love  married  our  hearts,  he  united  our  hands, 

And  mingled  the  blood  in  our  vems  ; 

One  race  we  became : — on  the  mountains  and  plains, 

Where  the  wounds  of  our  country  were  closed, 

The  Ark  of  Religion  reposed, 

The  unquenchable  Altar  of  Liberty  blazed, 

And  the  Temple  of  Justice  in  Mercy  was  raised. 

"  Ark,  Altar,  and  Temple,  we  left  with  our  breath ! 

To  our  children,  a  sacred  bequest  ; 

O  guard  them,  0  keep  them,  in  life  and  in  death ! 

So  the  shades  of  your  fathers  shall  rest. 

And  your  spirits  with  ours  be  in  Paradise  blest : 

— Let  Ambition,  the  sin  of  the  brave, 

And  Avarice,  the  soul  of  a  slave, 

No  longer  seduce  your  aflfections  to  roam 

From  Liberty,  Justice,  Religion,  at  home." 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 
There  lived  a  Man  : — and  who  was  he  ? 
— Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  Man  resembled  thee 

Unkno\\-n  the  region  of  his  birth, 
The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown. 
His  name  has  perish'd  from  the  earth 
This  truth  survives  alone  : — 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear 
Alternate  triumph'd  in  his  breast  : 
His  bliss  and  woe, — a  smile,  a  tear  I 
— Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  liml*. 
The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 
We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

317 


134 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  suffer'd, — but  his  pangs  are  o'er ; 
Enjoy'd, — but  liis  delights  are  fled  ; 
Had  friends, — his  friends  are  now  no  more ; 
And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved, — but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb : 
O  she  was  fair — but  nought  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 
Encounter'd  all  that  troubles  thee ; 
He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 
He  is — what  thou  shalt  be. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 
Erewhile  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist  in  vain. 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 
That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw, 
Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 
No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 
Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began 
Of  HIM  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this, — There  lived  a  Man! 


THE  HARP  OF  SORROW. 

I  GAVE  my  Harp  to  Sorrow 's  hand, 
And  she  has  ruled  the  chords  so  long. 

They  will  not  speak  at  my  command ; — 
They  warble  only  to  her  song. 

Of  dear,  departed  hours, 

Too  fondly  loved  to  last. 
The  dew,  the  breath,  the  bloom  of  flowers, 

Snapt  in  their  freshness  by  the  blast : 

Of  long,  long  years  of  future  care. 
Till  lingering  Nature  yields  her  breath, 

And  endless  ages  of  despair. 
Beyond  the  judgment-day  of  death : — 

The  weeping  Minstrel  sings. 

And,  while  her  numbers  flow, 
My  spirit  trembles  with  the  strings. 

Responsive  to  the  notes  of  woe. 

Would  gladness  move  a  sprightlier  strain. 
And  wake  this  wild  Harp's  clearest  tones. 

The  chords,  impatient  to  complain. 
Are  dumb  or  only  utter  moans. 

And  yet,  to  soothe  the  mind 

With  luxury  of  grief, 
The  soul  to  suffering  all  resign'd 

In  sorrow's  music  feels  relief. 

Thus  o'er  the  light  ^olian  lyre 
The  winds  of  dark  November  stray. 

Touch  the  quick  nerve  of  every  wire. 
And  on  its  magic  pulses  play ; 


Till  all  the  air  around 

Mysterious  murmurs  fill, 
A  strange  bewildering  dream  of  sound. 

Most  heavenly  sweet, — yet  mournful  still 

O !  snatch  the  Harp  from  Sorrow's  hand, 
Hope  !  who  hast  been  a  stranger  long  ; 

O !  strike  it  with  sublime  command. 
And  be  the  Poet's  life  thy  song. 

Of  vanish'd  troubles  sing, 

Of  fears  for  ever  fled, 
Of  flowers  that  hear  the  voice  of  Spring, 

And  burst  and  blossom  from  the  dead  ; — 

Of  home,  contentment,  health,  repose, 
Serene  delights,  while  years  increase  ; 

And  weary  life's  triumphant  close 

In  some  calm  sun-set  hour  of  peace  ; — 

Of  bliss  that  reigns  above. 

Celestial  May  of  Youth, 
Unchanging  as  Jehovah's  love. 

And  everlasting  as  his  truth  : 

Sing,  heavenly  Hope ! — and  dart  thine  hand 
O'er  my  frail  Harp,  untuned  so  long ; 

That  Harp  shall  breathe,  at  thy  command. 
Immortal  sweetness  through  thy  song. 

Ah  !  then,  this  gloom  control, 

^nd  at  thy  voice  shall  start 
A  new  creation  in  my  soul, 

A  native  Eden  in  my  heart. 


POPE'S  WILLOW. 


Verses  written  for  an  Urn,  made  out  of  the  trunk  of  the  Weep 
ing  Willow,  imported  from  the  East,  and  planted  by  Pof 
in  his  grounds  at  Twickenham,  where  it  flourished  man: 
years ;  but,  falling;  into  decay,  it  was  lately  cut  down. 


Ere  Pope  resign'd  his  tuneful  breath. 
And  made  the  turf  his  pillow, 

The  minstrel  hung  his  harp  in  death 
Upon  the  drooping  Willow ; 

That  Willow  from  Euphrates'  strand, 

Had  sprung  beneath  his  training  hand. 

Long  as  revolving  seasons  flew. 
From  youth  to  age  it  flourish'd  ; 

By  vernal  winds  and  starlight  dew-, 
By  showers  and  sunbeams  nourish'd ; 

And  while  in  dust  the  Poet  slept, 

The  Willow  o'er  his  ashes  w"ept. 

Old  Time  beheld  his  silvery  head 
With  graceful  grandeur  towering. 

Its  pensile  boughs  profusely  spread. 
The  breezy  lawn  embowering, 

Till  arch'd  around,  there  seem'd  to  shoot 

A  grove  of  scions  from  one  root. 

Thither,  at  summer  noon,  he  view'd 

The  lovely  Nine  retreating. 
Beneath  its  twilight  solitude 

With  songs  their  Poet  greeting, 

318 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


135 


\Miose  spirit  in  the  Willow  spoke, 
Like  Jove's  from  dark  Dodona's  oak. 

By  harvest  moonlight  there  he  spied 

The  fairy  bands  advancing ; 
Bright  Ariel's  troop,  on  Thames's  side, 

Around  the  Willow  dancing; 
Gay  sylphs  among  the  foliage  play'd, 
And  glow-worms  glitter'd  in  the  shade. 

One  morn,  while  Time  thus  mark'd  the  tree 

In  beauty  green  and  glorious, 
"  The  hand,"  he  cried,  "  that  planted  thee 

O'er  mine  was  oft  victorious  ; 
Be  vengeance  now  my  calm  employ, — 
One  work  of  Pope's  I  will  destroy." 

He  spake,  and  struck  a  silent  blow 
With  that  dread  arm  whose  motion 

Lays  cedars,  thrones,  and  temples  low, 
And  wields  o'er  land  and  ocean 

The  unremitting  ax  of  doom, 

That  fells  the  forest  of  the  tomb. 

Deep  to  the  Willow's  root  it  went, 

And  cleft  the  core  asunder. 
Like  sudden  secret  lightning,  sent 

Without  recording  thunder: 
— From  that  sad  moment,  slow  away 
Began  the  Willow  to  decay. 

In  vain  did  Spring  those  bowers  restore, 
W^here  loves  and  graces  revell'd, 

Autumn's  wild  gales  the  branches  tore, 
The  thin  grey  leaves  dishevell'd, 

And  every  wasting  Winter  found 

The  Willow  nearer  to  the  ground. 

Hoary,  and  weak,  and  bent  with  age, 

At  length  the  ax  assail'd  it : 
It  bow'd  before  the  woodman's  rage ; 

— The  swans  of  Thames  bewail'd  it. 
With  softer  tones,  with  sweeter  breath. 
Than  ever  charm'd  the  ear  of  death. 

0  Pope!  hadst  tliou,  whose  lyre  so  long 
The  wondering  world  enchanted, 

Amidst  thy  paradise  of  song 
This  Weeping  Willow  planted  ; 

Among  thy  loftiest  laurels  seen. 

In  deathless  verse  for  ever  green — 

Thy  chosen  Tree  had  stood  sublime. 

The  storm  of  ages  bravinsr. 
Triumphant  o'er  the  wrecks  of  Time 

Its  verdant  banner  waving, 
"\Miile  regal  pyramids  decay'd, 
And  empires  perish'd  in  its  shade. 

An  humbler  lot,  O  Tree!  was  thine, 
— Gone  down  in  all  thy  glory; 

The  SAveet,  the  mournful  task  be  mine, 
To  sing  thy  simple  story ; 

Though  verse  like  mine  in  vain  would  raise 

The  fame  of  thy  departed  days. 


Yet,  fallen  Willow  !  if  to  me 

Such  power  of  song  were  given. 

My  lips  should  breathe  a  soul  through  thee 
And  call  down  fire  troin  heaven, 

To  kindle  in  this  hallow'd  Urn 

A  flame  that  would  for  ever  burn. 


A  WALK  IN  SPRING. 

I  wander'd  in  a  lonely  glade. 
Where,  issuing  from  the  forest  shade 

A  little  mountain  stream 
Along  the  winding  valley  play'd, 

Beneath  the  morning  beam. 

Light  o'er  the  woods  of  dark  brown  oak 
The  west-wind  wreathed  the  hovering  smoke 

From  cottage  roofs  conceal'd. 
Below  a  rock  abruptly  broke, 

In  rosy  light  reveal'd. 

'Twas  in  the  infancy  of  May, — 
The  uplands  glow'd  in  green  array, 

W^hile  from  the  ranging  eye. 
The  lessening  landscape  stretch'd  away. 

To  meet  the  bending  sky. 

'T  is  sweet  in  solitude  to  hear 
The  earliest  music  of  the  year. 

The  Blackbird's  loud  mid  note. 
Or,  from  the  wintry  thicket  drear. 

The  Thrush's  stammering  throat. 

In  rustic  solitude  't  is  sweet 

The  earliest  flowers  of  Spring  to  greet, — 

The  violet  from  its  tomb, 
The  strawberry,  creeping  at  our  feet, 

The  sorrel's  simple  bloom. 

■V^^^erefore  I  love  the  walks  of  Spring, — 
While  still  I  hear  new  warblers  sing, 

Fresh-opening  bells  I  see  ; 
Joy  flits  on  every  roving  wing, 

Hope  buds  on  e\eiy  tree. 

That  morn  I  look'd  and  listen'd  long, 
Some  cheering  sight,  some  woodland  song. 

As  yet  unheard,  unseen, 
To  welcome,  with  remembrance  stiong 

Of  days  that  once  had  been ; — 

When  gathering  flowers,  an  eager  child, 
I  ran  abroad  with  rapture  wild ; 

Or,  on  more  curious  quest, 
Peep'd  breathless  through  the  copse,  and  smiled 

To  see  the  linnet's  nest 

Already  had  I  watch'd  the  flight 

Of  swallows  darting  through  the  light. 

And  mock'd  the  cuckoo's  call ; 
Already  view'd,  o'er  meadows  bright. 

The  evening  rainbow  fall. 

Now  in  my  walk,  with  sweet  surpri.s8 
I  saw  the  first  Spring  cowslip  rise, 

The  plant  whose  pensile  flowers 
Bend  to  the  earth  their  beauteous  eyes. 

In  sunshine  as  in  showers. 

319 


136 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lone  on  a  mossy  bank  it  grew, 
Where  lichens,  purple,  white,  and  blue, 

Among  the  verdure  crept  ; 
Its  yellow  ringlets,  dropping  dew, 

The  breezes  lightly  swept. 

A  bee  had  nestled  on  its  blooms, 
He  shook  abroad  their  rich  perfumes, 

Then  fled  in  airy  rings  ; 
His  place  a  butterfly  assumes. 

Glancing  his  glorious  wings. 

O,  welcome,  as  a  friend  I  I  cried, 

A  friend  through  many  a  season  tried, 

Nor  ever  sought  in  vain. 
When  May.  with  Flora  at  her  side, 

Is  dancing  on  the  plain. 

Sure  as  the  Pleiades  adorn 
The  glittering  coronet  of  mom, 

In  calm  delicious  hours, 
Beneath  their  beams  thy  buds  are  bom, 

'Midst  love-awakening  showers. 

Scatter'd  by  Nature's  graceful  hand, 
In  briery  glens,  o'er  pasture-land, 

Thy  fairy  tribes  we  meet ; 
Gay  in  the  milk-maid"s  path  they  stand, 

They  kiss  her  trippmg  feet. 

From  winter's  farm-yard  bondage  freed, 
The  cattle  bounding  o'er  the  mead, 

Where  green  the  herbage  grows, 
Among  thy  fragrant  blossoms  feed, 

Upon  thy  tufts  repose. 

Tossing  his  forelock  o'er  his  mane, 
The  foal,  at  rest  upon  the  plain, 

Sports  with  thy  flexile  stalk, 
But  stoops  his  little  neck  in  vain, 

To  crop  it  in  his  walk. 

Where  thick  thy  primrose  blossoms  play. 
Lovely  and  innocent  as  they, 

O'er  coppice  law^ns  and  dells. 
In  bands  the  rural  children  stray, 

To  pluck  thy  nectar'd  bells ; 

Whose  simple  sweets,  with  curious  skill, 
The  frugal  cottage-dames  distil, 

Nor  envy  France  the  vine, 
While  many  a  festal  cup  they  fill 

With  Britain's  homely  wine. 

Unchanging  still  from  year  to  year, 
Like  stars  returning  in  their  sphere, 

With  undiminish'd  rays, 
Thy  vernal  constellations  cheer 

The  dawTi  of  lengthening  days. 

Perhaps  from  Nature's  earliest  May, 
Imperishable  'midst  decay, 

"Thy  self-renewing  race 
Have  breathed  their  balmy  lives  away 

In  this  neglected  place. 

And  0,  till  Nature's  final  doom. 
Here  unmolested  may  they  bloom. 

From  scythe  and  plow  secure. 
This  bank  their  cradle  and  their  tomb, 

While  earth  and  skies  endure  I 


Yet,  lowly  Cowslip,  while  in  thee 
An  old  unalter'd  friend  I  see. 

Fresh  in  perennial  prime. 
From  Spring  to  Spring  behold  in  me 

The  woes  and  waste  of  Time. 

This  fading  eye  and  withering  mien 
Tell  what  a  sufferer  I  have  been. 

Since  more  and  more  estranged. 
From  hope  to  hope,  from  sce.ie  to  scene 

Through  Folly's  wilds  I  ranged. 

Then  fields  and  woods  I  proudly  spurn'd, 
From  Nature's  maiden  love  I  turn'd. 

And  v\oo'd  the  enchantress  Art ; 
Yet  while  for  her  my  fancy  burn'd, 

Cold  was  my  wretched  heart, — 

Till,  distanced  in  Ambition's  race, 
Weary  of  Pleasure's  joyless  chase. 

My  peace  untimely  slain, 
Sick  of  the  world, — I  turn'd  my  face 

To  fields  and  woods  again. 

'T  was  Spring  ; — my  former  haunts  I  found 
My  favorite  flowers  adorn'd  the  ground, 

My  darling  minstrels  play'd  ; 
The  mountains  were  with  sun-set  crown'd, 

The  valleys  dun  with  shade. 

With  lom  delight  the  scene  I  view'd. 
Past  joys  and  sorrows  were  renew'd ; 

My  infant  hopes  and  fears 
Look'd  lovely,  through  the  solitude 

Of  retrospective  years. 

And  still,  in  Memory's  twilight  bowers. 
The  spirits  of  departed  hours. 

With  mellowing  tints,  portray 
The  blossoms  of  life's  vernal  flowers 

For  ever  fall'n  away. 

Till  youth's  delirious  dream  is  o'er. 
Sanguine  with  hope,  we  look  before. 

The  future  good  to  find  ,• 
In  age,  when  error  charms  no  more. 

For  bliss  we  look  behind. 


A  DEED  OF  DARKNESS. 


The  body  of  the  Missionary,  John  Smith,  (who  died  February 
6, 1K24,  in  prison,  under  sentence  of  death  by  a  court-martial,) 
in  Demerara),  was  ordered  to  be  buried  secretly  at  night,  and 
no  person,  not  even  his  widow,  was  allowed  to  follow  the' 
corpse.  Mrs.  Smith,  however,  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Elliot,  ac- 
companied by  a  free  Negro,  carrying  a  lantern,  repaired  be- 
forehand to  the  spot  where  a  grave  had  been  dug,  and  ther( 
they  awaited  the  interment,  which  took  place  accordingly. 
His  Majesty's  pardon,  annulling  the  condemnation,  is  said  tc 
have  arrived  on  the  day  of  the  unfortunate  Missionary';! 
death,  from  the  rigors  of  confinement,  in  a  tropical  climate 
and  under  the  slow  pains  of  an  inveterate  malady,  previousl." 
afflicting  him. 


Come  down  in  thy  profoundest  gloom. 
Without  one  vagrant  fire-fly's  light. 

Beneath  thine  ebon  arch  entomb 

Earth,  from  the  gaze  of  Heaven,  O  Night' 

A  deed  of  darkness  must  be  done. 

Put  out  the  moon,  hold  back  the  sun. 

320 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


137 


I 


Are  these  the  criminals,  that  flee 

Like  deeper  shadows  through  the  shade  ? 

A  flickering  lamp,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Betrays  their  path  along  the  glade, 

Led  by  a  Negro ; — now  they  stand, 

Two  trembling  women,  hand  in  hand. 

A  grave,  an  open  grave,  appears ; 

O'er  this  in  agony  they  bend. 
Wet  the  fresh  turf  with  bitter  tears  ; 

Sighs  following  sighs  their  bosoms  rend  : 
These  are  not  murderers ! — these  have  known 
Grief  more  bereaving  than  their  own. 

Oft  through  the  gloom  their  straining  eyes 
Look  forth,  for  what  they  fear  to  meet : 

It  comes  ;  they  catch  a  glimpse  ;  it  flies  : 
Quick-glancing  lights,  slow-trampling  feet, 

Amidst  the  cane-crops, — seen,  heard,  gone, — 

Return, — and  in  dead-march  move  on. 

A  stern  procession ! — gleaming  arms, 

And  spectral  countenances,  dart. 
By  the  red  torch-flame,  wild  alarms, 

And  withering  pangs  through  either  heart; 
A  corpse  amidst  the  group  is  borne, 
A  prisoner's  corpse,  who  died  last  morn. 

Not  by  the  slave-lord's  justice  slain. 
Who  doom'd  him  to  a  traitor's  death  ; 

While  royal  mercy  sped  in  vain 

O'er  land  and  sea  to  save  his  breath : 

No ;  the  frail  life  that  warm'd  this  clay, 

Man  could  not  give  nor  take  away. 

His  vengeance  and  his  grace,  alike. 

Were  impotent  to  spare  or  kill ; 
— He  may  not  lift  the  sword  to  strike. 

Nor  turn  its  edge  aside,  at  will : 
Here,  by  one  sovereign  act  and  deed, 
God  cancell'd  all  that  man  decreed. 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust. 

That  corpse  is  to  the  grave  consign'd ; 
The  scene  departs  : — this  buried  trust. 

The  Judge  of  quick  and  dead  shall  find, 
\^Tien  things  which  Time  and  Death  have  seal'd 
Shall  be  in  flaming  fire  reveal'd. 

The  fire  shall  try  Thee,  then,  like  gold, 
Prisoner  of  hope  ! — await  the  test ; 

And  O,  when  truth  alone  is  told. 
Be  thy  clear  innocence  confess'd ! 

The  fire  shall  try  thy  foes ; — may  they 

Find  mercy  in  that  dreadful  day. 


O,  when  shall  I  dance  on  the  daisy-white  mead. 
In  the  shade  of  an  elm,  to  the  sound  of  the  reed  ? 

When  shall  I  return  to  that  lowly  retreat. 
Where  all  my  fond  objects  of  tenderness  meet, — 
The  lambs  and  the  heifers  that  follow  my  call, 

My  father,  my  mother. 

My  sister,  my  brother. 
And  dear  Isabella,  the  joy  of  them  all  ? 
O,  when  shall  I  visit  the  land  of  my  birth ! 
— 'T  is  the  loveliest  land  on  the  face  of  the  earth 


THE  OAK. 


THE   SWISS   COWHERD'S   SONG. 
IN  A  FOREIGN  LAND. 


[milated  from  the  French. 


0,  WHEN  shall  I  visit  the  land  of  my  birth,  ' 

The  loveliest  land  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ? 
When  shall  I  those  scenes  of  aflfection  explore. 

Our  forests,  our  fountains. 

Our  hamlets,  our  mountains,  I 

With  the  pride  of  our  mountains,  the  raaid  I  adore  ? 
41 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Metastasio. 


The  tall  Oak,  towering  to  the  skies, 
The  fury  of  the  wind  defies. 
From  age  to  age,  in  virtue  strong. 
Inured  to  stand,  and  suffer  wrong. 

O'erwhelm'd  at  length  upon  the  plain. 
It  puts  forth  wings,  and  sweeps  the  main 
The  selfsame  fue  undaunted  braves. 
And  fights  the  wind  upon  the  waves. 


THE  DIAL. 

This  shadow  on  the  Dial's  face, 

That  steals  from  day  to  day. 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace. 

Moments,  and  months,  and  years  away , 
This  shadow,  which,  in  every  clime, 

Since  light  and  motion  first  began, 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime — 

What  is  it  ? — Mortal  JNIan  ! 
It  is  the  scythe  of  Time  : 
— A  shadow  only  to  the  eye  ; 

Yet,  in  its  calm  career. 
It  levels  all  beneath  the  sky  ; 

And  still,  through  each  succeeding  year 
Right  onward,  with  resistless  power, 
Its  stroke  shall  darken  every  hour, 
Till  Nature's  race  be  run, 
And  Time's  last  shadow  shall  echpse  the  suu 

Nor  only  o'er  the  Dial's  face. 

This  silent  phantom,  day  by  day. 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace, 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls, 
From  Teneriflfe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls. 
For  still,  where'er  a  shadow  sweeps. 

The  scythe  of  Time  destroys, 
And  man  at  every  footstep  weeps 

O'er  evanescent  joys ; 
Like  flow'rets  glittering  with  the  dews  of  mom 
Fair  for  a  moment,  then  for  ever  shorn. 
— Ah !  soon,  beneath  the  inevitable  blow 
I  too  shall  lie  in  dust  and  darkness  low. 

Then  Time,  the  Conqueror,  will  suspend 
His  scythe,  a  trophy,  o'er  my  tomb. 

Whose  moving  shadow  shall  portend 
Each  frail  beholder's  doom 

321 


138 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O'er  the  wide  earth's  iUumined  space, 

Though  Time's  triumphant  flight  be  shown. 

The  truest  index  on  its  face 

Points  from  the  church-yard  stone. 


THE  ROSES. 


Addressed  to  a  Friend  on  the  Birth  of  his  first  Child. 


Two  Roses  on  one  slender  spray, 

In  sweet  communion  grew, 
Together  hail'd  the  morning  ray, 

And  drank  the  evening  dew ; 
While,  sweetly  wreathed  in  mossy  green, 
There  sprang  a  little  bud  between. 

Through  clouds  and  sunshine,  storms  and  showers, 

They  open'd  into  bloom. 
Mingling  their  foliage  and  their  flowers, 

Their  beauty  and  perfume  ; 
While,  foster'd  on  its  rising  stem, 
The  bud  became  a  purple  gem. 

But  soon  their  summer  splendor  pass'd, 

They  faded  in  the  wind. 
Yet  were  these  roses  to  the  last 

The  loveliest  of  their  kind, 
Whose  crimson  leaves,  in  falling  round, 
Adorn'd  and  sanctified  the  ground. 

When  thus  were  all  their  honors  shorn. 

The  bud  unfolding  rose. 
And  blush'd  and  brighten'd,  as  the  morn 

From  dawn  to  sun-rise  glows, 
Till  o'er  each  parent's  drooping  head, 
The  daughter's  crowning  glory  spread.    . 

My  Friends !  in  youth's  romantic  prime, 

The  golden  age  of  man, 
Like  these  twin  roses  spend  your  time, 

— Life's  little,  less'ning  span  ; 
Then  be  your  breasts  as  free  from  cares. 
Your  hours  as  innocent  as  theirs. 

And  in  the  infant  bud  that  blows 

In  your  encircling  arms. 
Mark  the  dear  promise  of  a  rose. 

The  pledge  of  future  charms. 
That  o'er  your  withering  hours  shall  shine, 
Fair,  and  more  fair,  as  you  decline ; — 

Till,  planted  in  that  realm  of  rest 

Where  Roses  never  die, 
Amidst  the  gardens  of  the  blest, 

Beneath  a  stormless  sky. 
You  flower  afresh,  like  Aaron's  rod, 
That  blossom'd  at  the  sight  of  God. 


TO  AGNES. 


fiepiy  to  some  Lines,  beginning,  "Arrest,  O  Time,  thy  fleeting 
course." 


Time  will  not  check  his  eager  flight, 
Though  gentle  Agnes  scold, 

For  'tis  the  Sage's  dear  delight 
To  make  young  ladies  old. 


Then  listen,  Agnes,  friendship  sings  ; 

Seize  fast  his  forelock  grey. 
And  pluc'K  from  his  careering  wings 

A  feather  every  day. 

Adorn'd  with  these,  defy  his  rage, 
And  bid  him  plow  your  face, 

For  every  furrow  of  old  age 
Shall  be  a  line  of  grace. 

Start  not :  old  age  is  virtue's  prime ; 

Most  lovely  she  appears. 
Clad  in  the  spoils  of  vanquish'd  Time, 

Down  in  the  vale  of  years. 

Beyond  that  vale,  in  boundless  bloom, 
The  eternal  mountains  rise  ; 

Virtue  descends  not  to  the  tomb. 
Her  rest  is  in  the  skies. 


AN  EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a  man  of  honest  mould. 

With  fervent  heart,  and  soul  sincere  ? 

A  husband,  father,  friend  ? — Behold, 
Thy  brother  slumbers  here. 

The  sun  that  wakes  yon  violet's  bloom, 
Once  cheer'd  his  eye,  now  dark  in  death 

The  wind  that  Avanders  o'er  his  tomb 
Was  once  his  vital  breath. 

The  roving  wind  shall  pass  away. 
The  warming  sun  forsake  the  sky  ; 

Thy  brother,  in  that  dreadful  day, 
Shall  live  and  never  die. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG. 

Shall  man  of  frail  fruition  boast? 

Shall  life  be  counted  dear, 
Oft  but  a  moment,  and,  at  most, 

A  momentary  year  I 

There  was  a  time, — that  time  is  past, 
When,  youth !  I  bloom'd  like  thee  ! 

A  time  will  come, — 't  is  coming  fast, 
When  thou  shalt  fade  like  me  : — 

Like  me  through  varying  seasons  range, 
And  past  enjoyments  mourn  : — 

The  fairest,  sweetest  spring  shall  change 
To  winter  in  its  turn. 

In  infancy,  my  vernal  prime. 

When  life  itself  was  new. 
Amusement  pluck'd  the  wings  of  time. 

Yet  swifter  still  he  flew. 

Summer  my  youth  succeeded  soon. 

My  sun  ascended  high, 
And  pleasure  held  the  reins  till  noon, 

But  grief  drove  down  the  sky. 

Like  autumn,  rich  in  ripening  com. 
Came  manhood's  sober  reign  ; 

My  harvest-moon  scarce  fiU'd  her  horn. 
When  she  began  to  wane. 

322 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEJVIS. 


130 


Close  follow'd  age,  infirm  old  age, 

The  winter  of  my  year ; 
When  shall  I  fall  before  his  rage, 

To  rise  beyond  the  sphere  ? 

I  long  to  cast  the  chains  away, 
That  hold  my  soul  a  slave, 

To  burst  these  dungeon  walls  of  clay. 
Enfranchised  from  the  grave. 

Life  lies  in  embrj'o, — never  free 
Till  Nature  yields  her  breath ; 

Till  Time  becomes  Eternity, 
And  Man  is  bom  in  Death. 


THE  GLOW-WORM. 

The  male  of  this  insect  is  said  to  be  a  fiy,  which  the  female 
Oftterpillar  attracts  in  the  ni^ht  by  the  lustre  of  her  train. 

When  Evening  closes  Nature's  eye, 
The  Glow-worm  lights  her  little  spark. 

To  captivate  her  favorite  fly, 

And  tempt  the  rover  through  the  dark. 

Conducted  by  a  sweeter  star 
Than  all  that  deck  the  fields  above, 

He  fondly  hastens  from  afar. 

To  soothe  her  solitude  with  love. 

Thus  in  this  w-ilderness  of  tears, 

Amidst  the  world's  perplexing  gloom. 

The  transient  torch  of  Hymen  cheers 
The  pilgrim  journeying  to  the  tomb. 

Unhappy  he  whose  hopeless  eye 
Turns  to  the  light  of  love  in  vain ; 

Whose  cynosure  is  in  the  sky. 
He  on  the  dark  and  lonely  main. 


BOLEHILL  TREES. 


A  conspicuous  plantation,  encompassing  a  school-house  and 
play-ground,  on  a  bleak  eminence,  at  Barlow,  in  Derbyshire: 
on  the  one  hand  facing  the  high  moors,  on  the  other,  over- 
looking a  richly-cultivated,  well-wooded,  and  mountainous 
country,  near  the  seat  of  a  gentleman  where  the  writer  has 
spent  many  happy  hours. 


Now  peace  to  his  ashes  who  planted  yon  trees 

Thai  w^elcome  my  wandering  eye ! 
In  loftv  luxiiriance  they  wave  with  the  breeze, 

And  resemble  a  grove  in  the  sky ; 
On  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  uncultured  and  bleak. 

They  flourish  in  grandeur  sublime. 
Adorning  its  bald  and  majestical  peak. 

Like  the  lock  on  the  forehead  of  Time. 

A  land-mark  they  rise ; — to  the  stranger  forlorn. 

All  night  on  the  wild  heath  delay'd, 
'T  is  rapture  to  spy  the  young  beauties  of  morn 

Unveiling  behind  their  dark  shade  : 
The  homeward-bound  husbandman  joys  to  behold, 

On  the  line  of  the  grey  evening  scene, 
Their  branches  yet  gleaming  with  purple  and  gold, 

And  the  sun-set  expiring  between. 


The  maidens  that  gather  the  fruits  of  the  moor,' 

While  weary  and  fainting  they  roam, 
Through   the  blue   dazzling  distance  of  noon-light 
explore 

The  trees  that  remind  them  of  home : 
The  children  that  range  in  the  valley  suspend 

Their  sports,  and  in  ecstacy  gaze. 
When  they  see  the  broad  moon  fiom  its  summit  as- 
cend. 

And  their  school-house  and  grove  in  a  blaze. 

0 !  sweet  to  my  soul  is  that  beautiful  grove, 

Awakening  remembrance  most  dear ; — 
When  lonely  in  anguish  and  exile  I  rove. 

Wherever  its  glories  appear. 
It  gladdens  my  spirit,  it  soothes  from  afar 

With  tranquil  and  tender  delight, 
It  shines  through  my  heart,  like  a  hope-beaming  star 

Alone  in  the  desert  of  night. 

It  tells  me  of  moments  of  innocent  bliss. 

For  ever  and  ever  gone  o'er ; 
Like  the  light  of  a  smile,  like  the  balm  of  a  kiss. 

They  were, — but  they  will  be  no  more. 
Yet  wherefore  of  pleasures  departed  complain. 

That  leave  such  endearment  behind  ? 
Though  the  sun  of  their  sweetness  be  sunk  in  the  main, 

Their  twilight  still  rests  on  the  mind. 

Then  peace  to  his  ashes  who  planted  these  trees ! 

Supreme  o'er  the  landscape  they  rise. 
With  simple  and  lovely  magnificence  please 

All  bosoms,  and  ravish  all  eyes ; 
Nor  marble,  nor  brass,  could  emblazon  his  fame 

Like  his  own  sylvan  trophies,  that  wave 
In  graceful  memorial,  and  whisper  his  name. 

And  scatter  their  leaves  on  his  grave. 

Ah !  thus,  when  I  sleep  in  the  desolate  tomb. 

May  the  laurels  I  planted  endure, 
On  the  mountain  of  high  immortality  bloom, 

'Midst  lightning  and  tempest  secure ! 
Then  ages  unborn  shall  their  verdure  admire, 

And  nations  sit  under  their  shade, 
While  my  spirit,  in  secret,  shall  move  o'er  my  lyre. 

Aloft  in  their  branches  display'd. 

Hence,  dream  of  vain-glory  ! — the  light  drop  of  dew    . 

That  glows  in  the  violet's  eye. 
In  the  splendor  of  morn,  to  a  fugitive  \-iew, 

May  rival  a  star  of  the  sky. 
But  the  violet  is  pluck'd,  and  the  dew-drop  is  flowTi, 

The  star  unextinguish'd  shall  shine  : 
Then  mine  be  the  laurels  of  virtue  alone, 

And  the  glories  of  Paradise  mine. 


THE  MOLE-HILL. 

Tell  me,  thou  dust  beneath  my  feet 
Thou  dust  that  once  hadst  breath. 

Tell  me  how  many  mortals  meet 
In  this  small  hill  of  death  ? 

The  mole  that  scoops  with  curious  toil 

Her  subterranean  bed. 
Thinks  not  she  plows  a  human  soil. 

And  mines  among  the  dead. 


1  Bilberries,  cluster-berries 


and  crane-berries. 

323 


140 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But,  Oh  !  where'er  she  turns  the  ground, 

My  kindred  earth  I  see  ; 
Once,  every  atom  of  this  mound 

Lived,  breathed,  and  felt,  like  me. 

Like  me,  these  elder-bom  of  clay 

Enjoy'd  the  cheerful  light, 
Bore  the  l)rief  burthen  of  a  day, 

And  went  to  rest  at  night. 

Far  in  the  regions  of  the  morn 

The  rising  sun  surveys 
Palmyra's  palaces  forlorn 

Empurpled  with  his  rays. 

The  spirits  of  the  desert  dwell 
Where  eastern  grandeur  shone, 

And  vultures  scream,  hyenas  yell 
Round  Beauty's  mouldering  throne. 

There  the  pale  pilgrim,  as  he  stands, 

Sees,  from  the  broken  wall. 
The  shadow  tottering  on  the  sands, 

Ere  the  loose  fragment  fall. 

Destruction  joys,  amid  those  scenes. 

To  watch  the  sport  of  Fate, 
While  Time  between  the  pillars  leans. 

And  bows  them  with  his  weight. 

But  towers  and  temples  crush'd  by  Time, 

Stupendous  wrecks !  appear 
To  me  less  mournfully  sublime 

Than  the  poor  Mole-liiU  here. 

Through  all  this  hillock's  crumbling  mould 
Once  the  warm  life-blood  ran ; 

— Here  thine  original  behold, 
And  here  thy  ruins,  Man  I 

Methinks  this  dust  yet  heaves  with  breath  ; 

Ten  thousand  pulses  beat : 
Tell  me, — in  this  small  hill  of  death, 

How  many  mortals  meet  ? 

By  wafting  winds  and  flooding  rains, 

From  ocean,  earth,  and  sky. 
Collected  here,  the  frail  remains 

Of  slumbering  millions  lie. 

What  scene  of  terror  and  amaze 
Breaks  through  the  twilight  gloom? 

What  hand  invisible  displays 
The  secrels  of  the  tomb? 

All  ages  and  all  nations  rise, 

And  every  grain  of  earth 
Beneath  my  feet,  before  mine  eyes, 

Is  startled  into  birth. 

Like  gliding  mists  the  shadowy  forms 
Through  the  deep  valley  spread, 

4nd  like  descending  clouds  in  storms 
Lower  round  the  mountain's  head. 

O'er  the  wide  champaign  while  they  pass. 
Their  footsteps  yield  no  sound. 

Nor  shake  from  the  light  trembling  grass 
A  dew-drop  to  the  ground. 


Among  the  undistinguish'd  hosts 

My  wondering  eyes  explore 
Awful,  sublime,  terrific  ghosts, 

Heroes  and  kings  of  yore  : 

Tyrants,  the  comets  of  their  kind. 

Whose  withering  influence  ran 
Through  all  the  promise  of  the  mind, 

And  smote  and  mildew'd  man  : — 

Sages,  the  Pleiades  of  earth. 

Whose  genial  aspects  smiled. 
And  flowers  and  fruitage  sprang  to  birth 

O'er  all  the  human  wild. 

Yon  gloomy  ruffian,  gash'd  and  gored. 

Was  he,  whose  fatal  skill 
Fii*st  beat  the  plowshare  to  a  sword, 

And  taught  the  art  to  kill. 

Behind  him  skulks  a  shade,  bereft 

Of  fondly-worshipp'd  fame ; 
He  built  the  Pyramids,  but  left 

No  stone  to  tell  his  name. 

Who  is  the  chief,  with  visage  dark 

As  tempests  when  they  roar  ? 
— The  first  who  push'd  his  daring  bark 

Beyond  the  timid  shore. 

Through  storms  of  death  and  seas  of  graves 

He  steer'd  with  stedfast  eye; 
His  path  was  on  the  desert  waves, 

His  compass  in  the  sky. 

The  youth  who  lifts  his  graceful  hand. 

Struck  the  unshapen  block. 
And  beauty  leap'd,  at  his  command, 

A  Venus  from  the  rock. 

Trembling  with  ecslacy  of  thought. 

Behold  the  Grecian  maid, 
W'hom  love's  enchanting  impulse  taught 

To  trace  a  slumberer's  shade. 

Sweet  are  the  thefts  of  love ; — she  stole 

His  image  while  he  lay. 
Kindled  the  shadow  to  a  soul. 

And  breathed  that  soul  through  clay. 

Yon  listening  njTuph,  who  looks  behind 

With  countenance  of  fire. 
Heard  midnight  music  in  the  wind, — 

And  framed  the  ^Eolian  lyre. 

All  hail ! — The  Sire  of  Song  appears. 

The  Muse's  eldest-bom ; 
The  sky-lark  in  the  dawn  of  years, 

The  poet  of  the  morn. 

He  from  the  depth  of  cavem'd  woods, 

That  echoed  to  his  voice. 
Bade  mountains,  valleys,  winds,  and  floods. 

And  earth  and  heaven  rejoice. 

Though  charm'd  to  meekness  while  he  sung 
The  wild  beasts  round  him  ran ; 

This  was  the  triumph  of  his  tongue, — 
It  tamed  the  heart  of  man. 

324 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


141 


Dim  through  the  mist  of  twilight  times 

The  ghost  of  Cyrus  walks  ; 
Behind  liim,  red  with  glorious  crimes, 

The  son  of  Ammon  stalks. 

Relentless  Hannibal,  in  pride 
Of  sworn,  fix'd  hatred,  lowers  ; 

Caesar, — 't  is  Brutus  at  his  side, — 
In  peerless  grandeur  towers. 

With  moonlight  softness  Helen's  charms 

Dissolve  the  spectred  gloom, 
The  leading  star  of  Greece  in  arms. 

Portending  Ilion's  doom. 

But  Homer ;  see  the  bard  arise  I 
And  hark !  he  strikes  the  lyre  ; 

The  Dardan  warriors  lift  their  eyes. 
The  Argive  Chiefs  respire, 

And  while  his  music  rolls  along, 
The  towers  of  Troy  sublime. 

Raised  by  the  magic  breath  of  song, 
Mock  the  destroyer,  Time. 

For  still  around  the  eternal  walls 

The  storms  of  battle  rage  ; 
And  Hector  conquers,  Hector  falls, 

Bewept  in  every  age. 

Genius  of  Homer !  were  it  mine 

To  track  thy  fiery  car. 
And  in  thy  sun-set  course  to  shine 

A  radiant  evening  star, — 

What  theme,  what  laurel  might  the  Muse 

Reclaim  from  ages  fled  ? 
What  realm-restoring  hero  choose 

To  summon  from  the  dead  ? 

Yonder  his  shadow  flits  away  ; 

— Thou  shalt  not  thus  depart ; 
Stay,  thou  transcendent  spirit,  stay. 

And  tell  me  who  thou  art! 

'T  is  Alfred  I — In  the  rolls  of  Fame, 

And  on  a  midnight  page, 
Blazes  his  broad  refulgent  name. 

The  watch-light  of  his  age. 

A  Danish  winter,  from  the  north, 

Howl'd  o'er  the  British  wild. 
But  Alfred,  like  the  spring,  brake  forth, 

And  all  the  desert  smiled. 

Back  to  the  deep  he  roll'd  the  waves. 

By  mad  invasion  hurl'd  ; 
His  voice  was  liberty  to  slaves. 

Defiance  to  the  world. 

And  still  that  voice  o'er  land  and  sea 

Shall  Albion's  foes  appal  ; 
The  race  of  Alfred  will  be  free ; — 

Hear  it,  and  tremble,  Gaul ! 

But  lo !  the  phantoms  fade  in  flight, 
Like  fears  that  cross  the  mind. 

Like  meteors  gleaming  through  the  night. 
Like  thunders  on  the  wind. 

2C 


The  vision  of  the  tomb  is  past  ; 

Beyond  it  who  can  tell 
In  what  mysterious  region  cast 

Immortal  spirits  dwell  ? 

I  know  not,  but  I  soon  shall  know, 
When  life's  sore  conflicts  cease. 

When  this  desponding  heart  lies  low, 
And  I  shall  rest  in  peace. 

For  see,  on  Death's  bewildering  wave. 

The  rainbow  Hope  arise, 
A  bridge  of  glory  o'er  the  grave, 

That  bends  beyond  the  skies. 

From  earth  to  heaven  it  swells  and  shines, 

The  pledge  of  bliss  to  Man ; 
Time  with  Eternity  combines, 

And  grasps  them  in  a  span. 


THE  CAST-AWAY  SHIP. 


The  subjects  of  the  two  following  poems  were  suggested  by  the 
loss  of  the  Blenheim,  commanded  by  Sir  Tliomas  Trow- 
bridge, which  was  separated  from  the  vessels  under  its  con- 
voy, during  a  storm  in  the  Indian  Ocean. — The  Admiral's 
son  afterwards  made  a  voyage,  without  success,  in  search  of 
his  father. — Trowbridge  was  one  of  Nelson's  captains  at  the 
Battle  of  the  Nile,  but  his  ship  unfortunately  ra-n  aground 
as  he  was  bearing  down  on  the  enemy. 


A  VESSEL  sail'd  from  Albion's  shore. 

To  utmost  India  bound. 
Its  crest  a  hero's  pendant  bore. 

With  broad  sea-laurels  crowTi'd 
In  many  a  fierce  and  noble  fight. 
Though  foil'd  on  that  Egyptian  night 

When  Gallia's  host  was  drown'd, 
And  Nelson,  o'er  his  country's  foes, 
Like  the  destroying  angel  rose. 

A  gay  and  gallant  company. 

With  shouts  that  rend  the  air. 
For  warrior-wreaths  upon  the  sea. 

Their  joyful  brows  prepare  : 
But  many  a  maiden's  sigh  was  sent. 
And  many  a  mother's  blessing  went. 

And  many  a  father's  prayer, 
With  that  exulting  ship  to  sea. 
With  that  undaunted  company. 

The  deep  that,  hke  a  cradled  child, 

In  breathing  slumber  lay, 
More  warmly  blush'd,  more  sweetly  smiled, 

As  rose  the  kindling  day  : 
Through  ocean's  mirror,  dark  and  clear, 
Reflected  clouds  and  skies  appear 

In  morning's  rich  array  : 
The  land  is  lost,  the  waters  glow, 
'Tis  heaven  above,  around,  below 

Majesric  o'er  the  sparkhng  tide, 

See  the  tall  vessel  sail, 
With  swelling  wings  and  shadowy  pride, 

A  swan  before  the  gale  ; 
Deep-laden  merchants  rode  behind  : 
— But,  fearful  of  the  fickle  wind, 

Britannia's  cheek  grew  pale, 

325 


142 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When,  lessening  through  the  flood  of  light, 
Their  leader  vanish'd  from  her  sight. 

Oft  had  she  hail'd  its  trophied  prow, 

Victorious  from  the  war, 
And  banner'd  masts,  that  would  not  bow. 

Though  riven  with  many  a  scar ; 
Oft  had  her  oaks  their  tribute  brought, 
To  rib  its  flanks,  with  thunder  fraught  ; 

But  late  her  evil  star 
Had  cursed  it  on  its  homeward  way, 
— "The  spoiler  shall  become  the  prey." 

Thus  warn'd,  Britannia's  anxious  heart 
Throbb'd  with  prophetic  woe. 

When  she  beheld  that  ship  depart, 
A  fair  ill-omen'd  show  ! 

So  views  the  mother,  through  her  tears. 

The  daughter  of  her  hopes  and  fears. 
When  hectic  beauties  glow 

On  the  frail  cheek,  where  sweetly  bloom 

The  roses  of  an  early  tomb. 

Ko  fears  the  brave  adventurers  knew, 
Peril  and  death  they  spurn'd  : 

Like  full-fledged  eagles  forth  they  flew ; 
Jove's  birds,  that  proudly  burn'd, 

In  battle-hurricanes  to  wield 

His  lightnings  on  the  billowy  field  ; 
And  many  a  look  they  turn'd 

O'er  the  blue  waste  of  waves,  to  spy 

A  Gallic  ensign  in  the  sky. 

But  not  to  crush  the  vaunting  foe, 

In  combat  on  the  main. 
Nor  perish  by  a  glorious  blow. 

In  mortal  triumph  slain, 
Was  their  unutterable  fate  : 
— ^That  story  w^ould  the  Muse  relate. 

The  song  might  rise  in  vain  ; 
In  ocean's  deepest,  darkest  bed. 
The  secret  slumbers  with  the  dead. 

On  India's  long-expecting  strand 

Their  sails  were  never  furl'd — 
Never  on  known  or  friendly  land 

By  storms  their  keel  was  hurl'd ; 
Their  native  soil  no  more  they  trod. 
They  rest  beneath  no  hallow'd  sod  ; 

Throughout  the  living  world 
This  sole  memorial  of  their  lot 
Remains, — they  were,  and  they  arc  not. 

The  spirit  of  the  Cape '  pursued 
Their  long  and  toilsome  way  ; 
At  length,  in  ocean-solitude, 
He  sprang  upon  his  prey : 
'  Havoc ! '  the  shipwreck-demon  cried. 
Loosed  all  his  tempests  on  the  tide. 

Gave  all  his  lightnings  play  ; 
The  abyss  recoil'd  before  the  blast. 
Firm  stood  the  seamen  to  the  last. 


Like  shooting  stars,  athwart  the  gloom 
The  merchant-sails  were  sped  ; 

Yet  oft,  before  its  midnight  doom. 
They  mark'd  the  high  mast-head 

Of  that  devoted  vessel,  tost 

By  winds  and  floods,  now  seen,  now  lost 
While  every  gun-fire  spread 

A  dimmer  flash,  a  fainter  roar : 

— At  length  they  saw,  thev  heard  no  more. 

There  are  to  whom  that  ship  was  dear, 

For  love  and  kindred's  sake ; 
When  these  the  voice  of  Rumor  hear. 

Their  inmost  heart  shall  quake. 
Shall  doubt,  and  fear,  and  wish,  and  grieve, 
Believe,  and  long  to  unbelieve. 

But  never  cease  to  ache  ; 
Still  doom'd,  in  sad  suspense,  to  bear 
The  Hope  that  keeps  alive  Despair 


THE  SEQUEL. 

He  sought  his  sire  from  shore  to  shore. 

He  sought  him  day  by  day ; 
The  prow  he  track'd  was  seen  no  more, 

Breasting  the  ocean-spray : 
Yet,  as  the  winds  his  voyage  sped, 
He  saifd  above  his  father's  head. 

Unconscious  where  it  lay. 
Deep,  deep  beneath  the  rolling  main  ; 
— He  sought  his  sire ;  he  sought  in  vain. 

Son  of  the  brave !  no  longer  weep ; 

Still  with  aflfection  true, 
Along  the  wild  disastrous  deep, 

Thy  father's  course  pursue  ; 
Full  in  his  wake  of  glory  steer, 
His  spirit  prompts  thy  bold  career. 

His  compass  guides  thee  through ; 
So.  while  thy  thunders  awe  the  sea, 
Britain  shall  find  thy  sire  in  thee. 


1  The  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  formerly  called   the  Cape  of 
Storms. — See  Camoens'  Lusiad,  Book  V. 


M   S. 


To  the  Memory  of  "A  Female  whom  Sickness  had  reconciled 
to  the  Notes  of  Sorrow,"  who  cones-ponded  with  the  Author 
under  this  signature,  on  the  first  publicition  of  his  poems,  ir 
1806,  but  died  soon  after;  when  her  real  name  and  ineriti' 
were  disclosed  to  him  by  one  of  her  surviving  friends. 


My  Song  of  Sorrow  reach'd  her  ear  ; 
She  raised  her  languid  head  to  hear. 
And,  smiling  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
Cojisoled  me  with  her  latest  breath. 

What  is  the  Poet's  highest  aim, 
His  richest  heritage  of  fame? 
— To  track  the  warrior's  fiery  road. 
With  havoc,  spoil,  destruction  strow'd, 
While  nations  bleed  along  the  plains, 
Dragg'd  at  his  chariot-wheels  in  chains  ? 
— With  fawning  hand  to  woo  the  lyre, 
Profanely  steal  celestial  fire. 
And  bid  an  idol's  altar  blaze 
With  incense  of  unhallow'd  praise  ? 

326 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


143 


— With  syren  strains,  Circean  art, 
To  win  the  ear,  beguile  the  heart, 
Wake  the  wild  passions  into  rage, 
And  please  and  prostitute  the  age  ? 

No ! — to  the  generous  Bard  belong 
Diviner  themes  and  purer  song : 
— To  hail  Religion  from  above. 
Descending  in  the  form  of  Love, 
And  pointing  through  a  world  of  strife 
The  narrow  way  that  leads  to  life  : 
— To  pour  the  balm  of  heavenly  rest 
Through  Sorrow's  agonizing  breast ; 
With  Pity's  tender  arms  embrace 
The  orphans  of  a  kindred  race  ; 
And  in  one  zone  of  concord  bind 
The  lawless  spoilers  of  mankind  : 
— To  sing  in  numbers  boldly  free 
The  wars  and  woes  of  liberty  ; 
The  glory  of  her  triumphs  tell. 
Her  nobler  suffering  when  she  fell,' 
Girt  with  the  phalanx  of  the  brave, 
Or  widow'd  on  the  patriot's  grave, 
W^hich  tyrants  tremble  to  pass  by, 
Ev'n  on  tlie  car  of  Victory. 

These  are  the  Bard's  sublimest  views, 
The  angel-visions  of  the  Muse, 
That  o'er  his  morning  slumbers  shine; 
These  are  his  themes, — and  these  were  mine. 
But  pale  Despondency,  that  stole 
The  light  of  gladness  from  my  soul, 
While  youth  and  folly  blindfold  ran 
The  giddy  circle  up  to  Man, 
Breathed  a  dark  spirit  through  my  lyre, 
Dimm'd  the  noon  radiance  of  my  fire, 
And  cast  a  mournful  evening  hue 
O'er  every  scene  ray  fancy  drew. 
Then  though  the  proud  despised  my  strain, 
It  flow'd  not  from  my  heart  m  vain ; 
The  lay  of  freedom,  fervor,  truth. 
Was  dear  to  undissembling  youth, 
From  manly  breasts  drew  generous  sighs. 
And  Virtue's  tears  from  Beauty's  eyes. 

My  Song  of  Sorrow  reach'd  Her  ear ; 
She  raised  her  languid  head  to  hear. 
And,  smiling  in  the  arms  of  Death, 
She  bless'd  rae  with  her  latest  breath. 

A  secret  hand  to  me  convey *d 
The  thoughts  of  that  inspiring  Maid ; 
They  came  like  voices  on  the  wind, 
Heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  mind. 
When  round  the  Poet's  twilight  walk 
Aerial  beings  seem  to  talk. 
Not  the  twin-stars  of  Leda  shine 
With  vernal  influence  more  benign. 
Nor  sweeter,  in  the  sylvan  vale. 
Sings  the  lone-warbling  nightingale, 
Than  through  my  shades  her  lustre  broke, 
Than  to  my  griefs  her  spirit  spoke. 

My  fancy  form'd  her  young  and  fair. 
Pure  as  her  sister-lilies  were. 


1  Piu  val  d'ogni  vittoria  un  bel  soffiiro. 

Oaetana  Passerini. 


Adorn'd  with  meekest  maiden  grace, 
With  every  charm  of  soul  and  face 
That  Virtue's  awful  eye  approves, 
And  fond  Affection  dearly  loves : 
Heaven  in  her  open  aspect  seen. 
Her  Maker's  image  in  her  mien. 

Such  was  the  picture  fancy  drew. 
In  lineaments  divinely  true  ; 
The  muse,  by  her  mysterious  art. 
Had  shown  her  likeness  to  my  heart. 
And  every  faithful  feature  brought 
O'er  the  clear  mirror  of  my  thought. 
— But  she  was  waning  to  the  tomb ; 
The  worm  of  death  was  in  her  bloom ; 
Yet  as  the  mortal  frame  declined, 
Strong  through  the  ruins  rose  the  mind ; 
As  the  dim  moon,  when  night  ascends, 
Slow  in  the  east  the  darkness  rends, 
Through  melting  clouds,  by  gradual  gleams. 
Pours  the  mild  splendor  of  her  beams. 
Then  bursts  in  triumph  o'er  the  pole, 
Free  as  a  disembodied  soul ! 
Thus,  while  the  veil  of  flesh  decay 'd. 
Her  beauties  brighten'd  through  the  shade, 
Charms  which  her  lowly  heart  conceal'd 
In  nature's  weakness  were  reveal'd : 
And  still  the  unrobing  spirit  cast 
Diviner  glories  to  the  last. 
Dissolved  its  bonds,  and  clear'd  its  flight. 
Emerging  into  perfect  light. 

Yet  shall  the  friends  who  loved  her  weep, 
Though  shrined  in  peace  the  sufferer  sleep, 
Though  rapt  to  heaven  the  saint  aspire, 
With  seraph  guards,  on  wings  of  fire  ; 
Yet  shall  they  weep ; — for  oft  and  well 
Remembrance  shall  her  story  tell. 
Affection  of  her  virtues  speak. 
With  beaming  eye  and  burning  cheek, 
Each  action,  word,  and  look  recall. 
The  last,  the  loveliest  of  all. 
When  on  the  lap  of  death  she  lay. 
Serenely  smiled  her  soul  away. 
And  left  surviving  Friendship's  breast 
Warm  with  the  sun-set  of  her  rest. 

O  thou,  who  wert  on  earth  unknovMi, 
Companion  of  ray  thought  alone. 
Unchanged  in  heaven  to  rae  thou  art. 
Still  hold  coramunion  with  ray  heart  ; 
Cheer  thou  ray  hopes,  exalt  my  views. 
Be  the  good  angel  of  my  Muse; 
— And  if  to  thine  approving  ear 
My  plaintive  numbers  once  were  dear, 
If,  falling  round  thy  dying  hours 
Like  evening  dews  on  closing  flowers. 
They  soothed  thy  pains,  and  through  thy  soul 
With  melancholv  sweetness  stole. 
Hear  Me  : — VvTien  sluraber  from  mine  eyes, 
That  roll  in  irksome  darkness,  flies  ; 
When  the  lorn  spectre  of  mirest 
At  conscious  midnight  haunts  my  breast  ; 
When  former  joys  and  present  \\  oes. 
And  future  fears,  are  all  my  foes ; 
Spirit  of  my  departed  friend. 
Calm  through  the  troubled  gloom  descend, 

327 


144 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  strains  of  triumph  on  thy  tongue, 
Such  as  to  dying  saints  are  sung ; 
Such  as  in  Paradise  the  ear 
Of  God  himself  dehghts  to  hear  ; 
— Come,  all  unseen  ;  be  only  known 
By  Zion's  harp  of  higher  tone, 
Warbling  to  thy  mysterious  voice ; 
Bid  my  desponding  powers  rejoice ; 
And  I  will  listen  to  thy  lay, 
Till  night  and  sorrow  flee  away, 
Till  gladness  o'er  my  bosom  rise, 
And  morning  kindle  round  the  skies. 

If  thus  to  me,  sweet  saint,  be  given 
To  learn  from  thee  the  hymns  of  Heaven, 
Thine  inspiration  will  impart 
Seraphic  ardors  to  my  heart  ; 
My  voice  thy  music  shall  prolong, 
And  echo  thy  entrancing  song  ; 
My  lyre,  wdth  sympathy  divine. 
Shall  answer  every  chord  of  thine, 
Till  their  consenting  tones  give  birtn 
To  harmonies  unknown  on  earth. 
Then  shall  my  thoughts,  in  living  fire 
Sent  down  from  heaven,  to  heaven  aspire, 
My  verse  through  lofty  measures  rise, 
A  scale  of  glory  to  the  skies, 
Resembling,  on  each  hallow'd  theme. 
The  ladder  of  the  Patriarch's  dream. 
O'er  which  descending  angels  shone, 
On  earthly  missions  from  the  throne. 
Returning  by  the  steps  they  trod. 
Up  to  the  Paradise  of  God. 


TPIE  PEAK  MOUNTAINS, 

WRITTEN  AT  BUXTOX,  IX  AUGUST,  1812. 


ft  may  be  useful  to  remark,  that  the  scenery  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Buxton,  when  surveyed  from  any  of  the  surrounding 
eminences,  consists  chiefly  of  numerous  and  naked  hills,  of 
which  many  are  yet  uninclosed,  and  the  rest  poorly  culti- 
vated ;  the  whole  district,  except  in  the  immediate  precincts 
of  the  Baths  and  the  village  of  Fairfield,  being  miserably  bare 
of  both  trees  and  houses. 


PART  I. 

Health  on  these  open  hills  I  seek. 

By  these  delicious  springs  in  vain  ; 

The  rose  on  this  deserted  cheek 

Shall  never  bloom  again  ; 

For  youth  is  fled ; — and  less  by  time 

Than  sorrow  torn  away. 

The  pride,  the  strength  of  manhood's  prime. 

Falls  to  decay. 

Restless  and  fluttering  to  expire. 

Life's  vapor  sheds  a  cold  dim  light. 

Frail  as  the  evanescent  fire 

Amidst  the  murky  night, 

That  tempts  the  traveller  from  afar 

To  follow,  o'er  the  heath, 

Its  baleful  and  bewildering  star 

To  snares  of  death 


A  dreary  torpor  numbs  my  brain  ; 

Now  shivering  pale, — now  flush'd  with  heat; 

Hurried,  then  slow,  from  vein  to  vein 

Unequal  pulses  beat; 

Quick  palpitations  heave  my  heart, 

Anon  it  seems  to  sink ; 

Alarm 'd  at  sudden  sounds  I  start. 

From  shadows  shrink. 

Bear  me,  ray  failing  limbs !  O !  bear 

A  melancholy  sufferer  forth, 

To  breathe  abroad  the  mountain  air 

Fresh  from  the  vigorous  north  ; 

To  view  the  prospect,  waste  and  wild. 

Tempestuous  or  serene, 

Still  dear  to  me,  as  to  the  child 

The  mother's  mien. 

Ah !  who  can  look  on  Nature's  face. 

And  feel  unholy  passions  move  ? 

Her  forms  of  majesty  and  grace 

I  cannot  choose  but  love  : 

Her  frowns  or  smiles  my  woes  disarm. 

Care  and  repining  cease  ; 

Her  terrors  awe,  her  beauties  charm 

My  thoughts  to  peace. 

Already  through  mine  inmost  soul, 

A  deep  tranquillity  I  feel, 

O'er  every  nerve,  with  mild  control. 

Her  consolations  steal ; 

This  fever'd  frame  and  fretful  mind. 

Jarring  'midst  doubts  and  fears, 

Are  soothed  to  harmony  : — I  find 

Delight  in  tears. 

I  quit  the  path,  and  track  with  toil 
The  mountain's  unfrequented  maze  ; 
Deep  moss  and  heather  clothe  the  soil. 
And  many  a  springlet  plays. 
That  welling  from  its  secret  source 
Down  rugged  dells  is  tost. 
Or  spreads  through  rushy  fens  its  course, 
Silently  lost. 

The  flocks  and  herds,  that  freely  range 
These  moorlands,  turn  a  jealous  eye, 
As  if  the  form  of  man  were  strange. 
To  watch  me  stealing  by ; 
The  heifer  stands  aloof  to  gaze, 
The  colt  comes  boldly  on  : — 
I  pause, — he  shakes  his  forelock,  neighs. 
Starts,  and  is  gone. 

I  seek  the  valley  : — all  alone 
I  seem  in  this  sequester'd  place  ; 
Not  so  ;  I  meet,  unseen,  yet  known, 
My  Maker  face  to  face  ; 
My  heart  perceives  his  presence  nigh, 
And  hears  his  voice  proclaim, 
While  bright  his  glory  passes  by. 
His  noblest  name. 

Love  is  that  name, — for  God  is  Love  ; 
— Here,  where,  unbuilt  by  mortal  hands 
Mountains  below  and  heaven  above, 
His  awful  temple  stands, 

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145 


I  worship : — "  Lord  I  though  I  am  dust 
And  ashes  in  thy  sight, 
Be  thou  my  strengtli ;  in  thee  I  trust, 
Be  thou  my  light." 

PART  IL 

Emerging  from  the  cavern 'd  glen, 

From  steep  to  steep  I  slowly  chmb. 

And  far  above  the  haunts  of  men, 

I  tread  in  air  subhme ! 

Beneath  my  path  the  swallows  sweep ; 

Yet  higher  crags  impend, 

And  wild  flcfwers  from  the  fissures  peep. 

And  rills  descend. 

Now  on  the  ridges  bare  and  bleak, 
Cool  round  my  temples  sighs  the  gale ; 
Ye  winds,  that  wander  o'er  the  Peak ; 
Ye  mountain-spirits,  hail ! 
Angels  of  health !  to  man  below 
Ye  bring  celestial  airs  ; 
Bear  back  to  Him,  from  whom  ye  blow, 
Our  praise  and  prayers. 

Here,  like  the  eagle  from  his  nest, 
I  take  my  proud  and  dizzy  stand  ; 
Here,  from  the  cliff's  sublimest  crest. 
Look  down  upon  the  land  : 
O  for  the  eagle's  eye,  to  gaze 
Undazzled  through  this  light! 
O  for  the  eagle's  wings,  to  raise 
O'er  all  my  flight ! 

The  sun  in  glory  walks  the  sky, 
White  fleecy  clouds  are  floating  round. 
Whose  shapes  along  the  landscape  fly, 
— Here,  chequering  o'er  the  ground  ; 
There,  down  the  glens  the  shadows  sweep, 
With  changing  lights  between  ; 
Yonder  they  climb  the  upland  steep, 
Shifting  the  scene. 

Above,  beneath,  immensely  spread, 
Valleys  and  hoary  rocks  I  view, 
Heights  over  heights  exalt  their  head, 
Of  many  a  sombre  hue  ; 
No  waving  woods  their  flanks  adorn, 
No  hedge-rows,  gay  with  trees. 
Encircle  fields,  where  floods  of  corn 
Roll  to  the  breeze. 

My  soul  this  vast  horizon  fills, 
Within  whose  undulated  line 
Thick  stand  the  multitude  of  hills. 
And  clear  the  waters  shine  ; 
Grey  mossy  walls  the  slope  ascend ; 
W^hile  roads  that  tire  the  eye. 
Upward  their  winding  course  extend. 
And  touch  the  sky. 

With  rude  diversity  of  form. 

The  insulated  mountains  tower : 

— Oft  o'er  these  cliffs  the  transient  storm 

And  partial  darkness  lower, 

42  2C2 


Wliile  yonder  summits  far  away 
Shine  sweetly  through  the  gloom, 
Like  glimpses  of  eternal  day 
Beyond  the  tomb. 

Hither,  of  old,  the  Almighty  came; 

Clouds  were  his  car,  his  steeds  the  wind ; 

Before  Him  went  devouring  flame, 

And  thunder  roU'd  behind ; 

At  His  approach  the  mountains  reel'd 

Like  vessels  to  and  fro : 

Earth,  heaving  like  a  sea,  reveal'd 

The  gulfs  below. 

Borne  through  the  wilderness  in  wrath, 

He  seem'd  in  power  alone  a  God  ,- 

But  blessings  follow'd  in  his  path, 

P'or  Mercy  seized  his  rod  ; 

She  smote  the  rock, — and  as  he  pass'd 

Forth  gush'd  a  living  stream ; 

The  fire,  the  earthquake,  and  the  blast 

Fled  as  a  dream. 

Behold  the  everlasting  hills. 

In  that  convulsion  scalter'd  round  ; 

Hark  I  from  their  caves  the  issuing  rills 

With  sweetest  music  sound. 

Ye  lame  and  impotent !  draw  near ; 

With  healing  on  her  wing, 

The  cherub  Mercy  watches  here 

Her  ancient  spring. 


TO  ANN  AND  JANE, 

WKITTEN  ON  A  BLANK  LEAF  IN  THE  SMALL  VO'.  rJMB 
OF  HYMNS  FOR  INFANT  illNDS. 

When  the  shades  of  night  retire 
From  the  morn's  advancing  beams. 
Ere  the  hills  are  tipt  with  fire, 
And  the  radiance  lights  the  streams, 
Lo.  the  lark  begins  her  song. 
Early  on  the  wing  and  long. 

Summon'd  by  the  signal  notes, 
Soon  her  sisters  quit  the  lawn, 
With  their  wildly  warbling  throats, 
Soaring  in  the  dappled  dawn  ; 
Brighter,  warmer  spread  the  rays. 
Louder,  sweeter  swell  their  lays. 

Nestlings,  in  their  grassy  beds. 
Hearkening  to  the  joyful  sound. 
Heavenward  point  their  little  heads. 
Lowly  twittering  from  the  ground, 
Ere  their  wings  are  fledged  to  fly. 
To  the  chorus  in  the  sky. 

Thus,  fair  Minstrels,  while  ye  sing, 
Teaching  infant  minds  to  raise 
To  the  universal  King 
Humble  hymns  of  prayer  and  praise, 
O  may  all  who, hear  your  voice 
Look,  and  listen,  and  rejoice ! 

Faltering  like  the  skylark's  young, 
While  your  numbers  they  record, 
Soon  may  every  lieart  and  tonguo 
Learn  to  ma£fnify  the  Lord  ; 

32.9 


146 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  your  strains,  divinely  sweet, 
Unborn  millions  thus  repeat 

Minstrels !  what  reward  is  due 
For  this  labor  of  your  love  ? 
— Through  eternity  may  You, 
In  the  Paradise  above, 
Round  the  dear  Redeemer's  feet. 
All  your  infant  readers  meet. 


OCCASIONAL  ODE, 

FOR  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  ROYAL  BRITISH  SYSTEM 

OF  EDUCATION,  HELD  AT  FREEMASONS*  HALL, 

MAY  16,  1812. 

The  lion,  o'er  his  wild  domains, 

Rules  with  the  terror  of  his  eye ; 

The  eagle  of  the  rock  maintains 

By  force  his  empire  in  the  sky ; 

The  shark,  the  tyrant  of  the  flood. 

Reigns  through  the  deep  with  quenchless  rage ; 

Parent  and  young,  unwean'd  from  blood. 

Are  still  the  same  from  age  to  age. 

Of  all  that  live,  and  move,  and  breathe, 
Man  only  rises  o'er  his  birth  ; 
He  loolis  above,  around,  beneath. 
At  once  the  heir  of  heaven  and  earth : 
Force,  cunning,  speed,  which  Nature  gave 
The  various  tribes  throughout  her  plan. 
Life  to  enjoy,  from  death  to  save, — 
These  are  the  lowest  powers  of  Man. 

From  strength  to  strength  he  travels  on : 
He  leaves  the  lingering  brute  behind : 
And  when  a  few  short  years  are  gone. 
He  soars,  a  disembodied  mind  : 
Beyond  the  grave,  his  course  sublime 
Destined  through  nobler  paths  to  run. 
In  his  career  the  end  of  Time 
Is  but  Eternity  begun. 

What  guides  him  in  his  high  pursuit. 

Opens,  illumines,  cheers  his  way, 

Discerns  the  immortal  from  the  brute, 

God's  image  from  the  mould  of  clay  ? 

'T  is  Knowledge  : — Knowledge  to  the  soul 

Is  power,  and  liberty,  and  peace ; 

And  while  celestial  ages  roll. 

The  joys  of  Knowledge  shall  increase. 

Hail !  to  the  glorious  plan,  that  spread 
The  light  with  universal  beams. 
And  through  the  human  desert  led 
Truth's  living,  pure,  perpetual  streams. 
— Behold  a  new  creation  rise. 
New  spirit  breathed  into  the  clod. 
Where'er  the  voice  of  Wisdom  cries, 
'  Man,  know  thyself,  and  fear  thy  Gk)d." 


A  DAUGHTER  TO  HER  MOTHER, 
ON  HER  BIRTII-DAY,  NOVEMBER  25,  1811. 

This  the  day  to  me  most  dear 
In  the  changes  of  the  year ; 
Spring,  the  fields  and  woods  adorning. 
Spring  may  boast  a  gayer  morning  ; 


Summer  noon,  with  brighter  beams. 
Gild  the  mountains  and  the  streams  ; 
Autumn,  through  the  twilight  vale, 
Breathe  a  more  delicious  gale  : 
Yet  though  stern  November  reigns. 
Wild  and  wintry  o'er  the  plains, 
Never  does  the  morning  rise 
Half  so  welcome  to  mine  eyes; 
Noontide  glories  never  shed 
Rays  so  beauteous  round  m^  head  ; 
Never  looks  the  evening-scene 
So  enchantingly  serene 
As  on  this  returning  day. 
When,  in  spirit  rapt  away, 
Joys  and  sorrows  I  have  known, 
In  the  years  for  ever  flown. 
Wake  at  every  sound  and  sight. 
Reminiscence  of  delight, 
All  around  me,  all  above, 
Witnessing  a  Mother's  love. 

Love,  that  watch'd  my  early  years 
With  conflicting  hopes  and  fears ; 
Love,  that  tlirough  life's  flowery  May 
Led  my  childhood,  prone  to  stray; 
Love,  that  still  directs  my  youth 
With  the  constancy  of  Truth, 
Heightens  every  bliss  it  shares, 
Softens  and  divides  the  cares, 
Smiles  away  my  light  distress, 
Weeps  for  joy,  or  tenderness  : 
— May  that  love,  to  latest  age, 
Cheer  my  earthly  pilgrimage ; 
May  that  love,  or  death  victorious. 
Rise  beyond  the  grave  more  glorious ; 
Souls,  united  here,  would  be 
One  to  all  eternity. 

When  these  eyes,  from  native  night. 
First  unfolded  to  the  light. 
On  what  object,  fair  and  new, 
Did  they  fix  their  fondest  view  ? 
On  my  Mother's  smihng  mien  ; 
All  the  mother  there  was  seen. 
When  their  weary  lids  would  close, 
And  she  sung  me  to  repose. 
Found  I  not  the  sweetest  rest 
On  my  Mother's  peaceful  breast  ? 
When  my  tongue  from  hers  had  caught 
Sounds  to  utter  infant  thought. 
Readiest  then  what  accents  came  ? 
Those  that  meant  my  Mother's  name. 
When  my  timid  feet  begun 
Strangely  pleased,  to  stand  or  run, 
'T  was  my  Mother's  voice  and  eye 
Most  encouraged  me  to  try, 
Safe  to  run,  and  strong  to  stand. 
Holding  by  her  gentle  hand. 

Time  since  then  hath  deeper  made 
Lines,  where  youtliful  dimples  play'd  ; 
Yet  to  me  my  Mother's  face 
Wears  a  more  angelic  grace : 
And  her  tresses  thin  and  hoar5% 
Are  they  not  a  crown  of  glory  ? 
— Cruel  griefs  have  wrung  that  breast, 
Once  my  Paradise  of  rest ; 

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H7 


While  in  these  I  bear  a  part, 

Warmer  grows  my  Mother's  heart. 

Closer  our  affections  twine, 

Mine  with  hers,  and  hers  A\-ith  mine. 

— Many  a  name,  since  hers  I  knew. 

Have  I  loved  with  honor  due, 

But  no  name  shall  be  more  dear 

Than  my  Mother's  to  mine  ear. 

— Many  a  hand  that  Friendship  plighted 

Have  I  clasp'd,  with  all  delighted, 

But  more  faithful  none  can  be 

Than  my  Mother's  hand  to  me. 

Thus  by  every  tie  endear'd, 
Thus  with  filial  reverence  fear'd, 
Mother  I  on  this  day,  'tis  meet 
That,  with  salutation  sweet, 
I  should  wish  you  years  of  health, 
Worldly  happiness  and  wealth, 
And  when  good  old  age  is  past, 
Heaven's  eternal  peace  at  last ! 
But  with  these  T  frame  a  vow 
For  a  double  blessing  now ; 
One,  that  richly  shall  combine 
Your  felicity  with  mine  ; 
One,  in  which,  with  soul  and  voice, 
Both  together  may  rejoice  ; 
O  what  shall  that  blessing  be  ? 
— Dearest  Mother !  may  you  see 
All  your  prayers  fulfill'd /or  mc .' 


STANZAS, 


The  lyre  that  sunk  thee  to  the  grave, 
When  bui-sting  into  bloom. 
That  lyre  the  power  to  Genius  gave 
To  blossom  in  the  tomb. 

Yes ; — till  his  memory  fail  with  years, 
Shall  Time  thy  strains  recite  ; 
And  while  thy  story  swells  his  tears. 
Thy  song  shall  charm  his  flight. 


BN  READING  THE  VERSES  ENTITLED    "  RESIGNATION, 
WRITTEN    BY    CHATTERTON,  A  FEW  DAYS    BEFORE 
HIS  MELANCHOLY  END.    ' 

A  DYING  swan  of  Pindus  sings 

In  wildly-mournful  strains ; 

As  Death's  cold  fingers  snap  the  strings. 

His  suffering  lyre  complains. 

Soft  as  the  mist  of  evening  wends 
Along  the  shadowy  vale ; 
Sad  as  in  storms  the  moon  ascends. 
And  turns  the  darkness  pale : 

So  soft  the  melting  numbers  flow 
From  his  harmonious  lips ; 
So  sad  his  woe-wan  features  show, 
Just  fading  in  eclipse. 

The  Bard,  to  dark  despair  resign'd, 
With  his  expiring  art. 
Sings,  'midst  the  tempest  of  his  mind. 
The  shipwreck  of  his  heart. 

If  Hope  still  seem  to  linger  nigh, 
x\nd  hover  o'er  his  head. 
Her  pinions  are  too  weak  to  fly. 
Or  Hope  ere  now  had  fled. 

Rash  Minstrel !  who  can  hear  thy  songs, 
Nor  long  to  share  thy  fire  ? 
Who  read  thine  errors  and  thy  wrongs, 
Nor  execrate  the  lyre  ? 


THE  WILD  ROSE. 

ON  PLUCKING  ONE  LATE  IN  THE  MONTH  OF  OCTOBER 

Thou  last  pale  promise  of  the  waning  year, 

Poor  sickly  Rose  I  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Why,  frail  flow  er !  so  late  a  comer. 

Hast  thou  slept  away  the  summer  ? 

Since  now,  in  Autumn's  sullen  reign. 

When  ev'ry  breeze 

Unrobes  the  trees. 

And  strews  their  annual  garments  on  the  plain 

Awaking  from  repose, 

Thy  Fairy  lids  unclose. 

Feeble,  evanescent  flower, 

Smile  aw-ay  thy  sunless  hour ; 

Every  daisy,  in  my  walk. 

Scorns  thee  from  its  humbler  stalk 

Nothing  but  thy  form  discloses 

Thy  descent  from  royal  roses ; 

How  thine  ancestors  would  blush 

To  behold  thee  on  their  bush, 

Drooping  thy  dejected  head 

Where  their  bolder  blossoms  spread. 

Withering  in  the  frosty  gale, 

Where  their  fragrance  fill'd  the  vale  I 

Last  and  meanest  of  thy  race. 

Void  of  beauty,  color,  grace  I 

No  bee  delighted  sips 

Ambrosia  from  thy  lips  ; 

No  spangling  dew-drops  gem 

Thy  fine  elastic  stem  ; 

No  living  lustre  glistens  o'er  thy  bloom, 

Thy  sprigs  no  verdant  leaves  adorn. 

Thy  bosom  breathes  no  exquisite  perfume  i 

But  pale  thy  countenance  as  snow. 

While,  unconceal'd  below. 

All  naked  glares  the  threatening  thorn. 

Around  thy  bell,  o'er  mildew'd  leaves. 
His  ample  web  a  spider  weaves ; 
A  wily  ruffian,  gaunt  and  grim. 
His  labyrinthine  toils  he  spreads 
Pensile  and  light ; — his  glossy  threads 
Bestrew^'d  with  many  a  wing  and  limb; 
Even  in  thy  chalice  he  prepares 
His  deadly  poison  and  delusive  snares. 

While  I  pause,  a  vagrant  fly 
Giddily  comes  buzzing  by ; 
Roimd  and  round,  on  viewless  wings, 
Lo  !  the  insect  wheels  and  sings  ; 
Closely  couch'd,  the  fiend  discovers. 
Sets  him  with  his  sevenfold  eyes. 
And  while  o'er  the  verge  he  hovers. 
Seems  to  fascinate  his  prize, 

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As  the  snake's  magnetic  glare 
Charms  the  flitting  tribes  of  air, 
Till  the  dire  enchantment  draws 
Destined  victims  to  his  jaws. 

Now  'midst  kindred  corses  mangled, 
On  his  feet  alights  the  fly ; 
Ah  !  he  feels  himself  entangled. 
Hark!  he  pours  a  piteous  cr}^ 
Swift  as  Death's  own  arrows  dart, 
On  his  prej'  the  spider  springs, 
Wounds  his  side, — with  dexterous  art 
Winds  the  web  about  his  wings ; 
Quick  as  he  came,  recoiling  then, 
The  villain  vanishes  into  his  den. 
The  desperate  fly  perceives  too  late 
The  hastening  crisis  of  his  fate ; 
Disaster  crowds  upon  disaster. 
And  every  struggle  to  get  free 
Snaps  the  hopes  of  liberty. 
And  draws  the  knots  of  bondage  faster. 

Again  the  spider  glides  along  the  line  ; 
Hold,  murderer!  hold; — the  game  is  mine. 
— Captive  !  unwarn'd  by  danger,  go, 
Frolic  awhile  in  light  and  air ; 
Thy  fate  't  is  easy  to  foreshow, 

Preserved to  perish  in  a  safer  snare ! 

Spider,  thy  worthless  life  I  spare ; 

Advice  on  thee  't  were  vain  to  spend, 

Thy  wicked  ways  thou  wilt  not  mend, — 

Then  haste  thee,  spoiler,  mend  thy  net : 

Wiser  than  I 

Must  be  yon  fly, 

If  he  escapes  thy  trammels  yet  ; 

Most  eagerly  the  trap  is  sought 

In  w  hich  a  fool  has  once  been  caught. 

And  thou,  poor  Rose !  whose  livid  leaves  expand, 

Cold  to  the  sun,  vmtempting  to  the  hand, 

Bloom  unadmired, — uninjured  die  ; 

Thine  aspect,  squalid  and  forlorn, 

Insures  thy  peaceful,  dull  decay ; 

Hadst  thou  with  blushes  hid  thy  thorn, 

Grown  "  sweet  to  sense  and  lovely  to  the  ej'e," 

I  might  have  pluck'd  thy  flower, 

Worn  it  an  hour, 

"  Then  cast  it  like  a  loathsome  weed  away."  ' 


ON  FINDING  THE  FEATHERS  OF  A  LINNET 
SHATTERED    OS    THE   GROUND,  IN  A  SOLITARY  WALK 

These  little  rehcs,  hapless  bird! 
That  strew  the  lonely  vale, 
With  silent  eloquence  record 
Thy  melancholy  tale. 

Like  autumn's  leaves,  that  rustle  round 
From  every  withering  tree, 
These  plumes,  dishevell'd  o'er  the  groimd, 
Alone  remain  of  thee. 

Some  hovering  kite's  rapacioue  maw 
Hath  been  thy  timeless  grave  ; 
No  pitying  eye  thy  murder  saw, 
No  friend  appeared  to  save. 


1  Otwar's  Orphan. 


Heaven's  thunder  smite  the  guilty  foe ! 
No : — spare  the  tyrant's  breath, 
Till  wintry  winds,  and  famine  slow. 
Avenge  thy  cruel  death  I 

But  every  feather  of  thy  wing 
Be  quicken'd  where  it  lies, 
And  at  the  soft  relum  of  spring. 
A  fragrant  cowslip  rise  ! 

Few  were  thy  days,  thy  pleasures  few. 
Simple  and  unconfined ; 
On  sunbeams  every  moment  flew. 
Nor  left  a  care  behind. 

In  spring  to  build  thy  curious  nest, 
And  woo  thy  merr\-  bride, 
Carol  and  fly,  and  sport  and  rest, 
Was  all  thy  humble  pride. 

Happy  beyond  the  lot  of  kings, 
Tliy  bosom  knew  no  smart. 
Till  the  last  pang,  that  tore  the  strings 
From  thy  dis.sever'd  heart. 

When  late  to  secret  griefs  a  prey, 
I  wander'd  slowly  here. 
Wild  from  the  copse  an  artless  lay. 
Like  magic,  won  mine  ear. 

Perhaps  't  was  thy  last  evening  song, 

That  exquisitely  stole 

In  sweetest  melody  along, 

And  harmonized  my  soul. 

Now,  blithe  musician !  now  no  more 
Thy  mellow  pipe  resounds, 
But  jarring  drums  at  distance  roar, 
And  yonder  howl  the  hoimds  : — 

The  hounds,  that  through  the  echoing  wood 
The  panting  hare  pursue  : 
The  drums,  that  wake  the  cry  of  blood, 
— The  voice  of  Glory  too  ! 

Here  at  my  feet  thy  frail  remains. 
Unwept,  unburied,  lie,  ^ 

Like  victims  on  embattled  plains. 
Forsaken  where  they  die. 

Yet  could  the  Muse,  whose  strains  rehearse 
Thine  unregarded  doom, 
Enshrine  thee  in  immortal  verse. 
Kings  should  not  scorn  thy  tomb. 

Though  brief  as  thine  my  tuneful  date, 
When  wandering  near  this  spot,  ' 

The  sad  memorials  of  thy  fate 
Shall  never  be  forgot 

While  doora'd  the  lingering  pangs  to  feel 
Of  many  a  nameless  fear. 
One  truant  sigh  from  these  I  '11  steal. 
And  drop  one  willing  tear. 

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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


149 


SONNET. 
TO  A  BRIDE. 

Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  P.  Salandri. 


The  more  divinely  beautiful  thou  art, 

Lady  !  of  Love's  inconstancy  beware ; 

Watch  o'er  thy  charms,  and  with  an  angel's  care 

O  guard  thy  maiden  purity  of  heart : 

At  every  whisper  of  temptation,  start ; 

The  lightest  breathings  of  unhallow'd  air 

Love's  tender,  trembling  lustre  will  impair, 

Till  all  the  light  of  innocence  depart. 

Fresh  from  the  bosom  of  an  Alpine  hill, 
When  the  coy  fountain  sparkles  into  day, 
And  sunbeams  bathe  and  brighten  in  its  rill, 
If  here  a  plant  and  there  a  flower,  in  play. 
Bending  to  sip,  the  little  channel  fill, 
It  ebbs,  and  languishes,  and  dies  away. 


SONNET. 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Petrarch. 


LoxELY  and  thoughtful  o'er  deserted  plains, 
I  pass  with  melancholy  steps  and  slow, 
Mine  eyes  intent  to  shun,  where'er  I  go. 
The  track  of  man : — from  him  to  hide  my  pains. 
No  refuge  save  the  wilderness  remains  : 
The  curious  multitude  would  quickly  know. 
Amidst  affected  smiles,  the  cherish'd  woe 
That  wrings  my  bosom,  and  consumes  my  veins. 

O  that  the  rocks  and  streams  of  solitude. 
The  vales  and  woods  alone,  my  griefs  might  see ! 
But  paths,  however  secret,  wild  and  rude, 
I  find  not  from  tormenting  passion  free; 
Where'er  I  wander,  still  by  Love  pursued, 
With  Him  I  hold  communion,  He  with  Me. 


SONNET. 

ON  THE  SIEGE  OF  GENOA  BY  THE  FRENCH  ARBIY  IN  16**. 


SONNET. 

ON    THE    SIEGE    OF    FAMAGUSTA,    IN    THE    ISLAND   OF 
CYPRUS,    BY    THE    TURKS,    IN  1571. 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Benedetto  dall'  Uva. 


Thus  saith  the  Lord: — In  whom  shall  Cyprus  trust, 
With  all  her  crimes,  her  luxury,  and  pride  ? 
In  her  voluptuous  loves  will  she  confide, 
Her  harlot-daughters,  and  her  queen  of  lust? 
My  day  is  come  when  o'er  her  neck  in  dust 
Vengeance  and  fury  shall  triumphant  ride, 
Death  and  captivity  the  spoil  divide. 
And  Cyprus  perish : — I  the  Lord  am  just. 

"  Then  he  that  bought,  and  he  that  sold  in  thee, 
Thy  princely  merchants,  shall  their  loss  deplore. 
Brothers  in  ruin  as  in  fraud  before  ; 
And  thou,  who  madest  thy  rampart  of  the  sea, 
Less  by  thy  foes  cast  down  than  crush'd  by  Me ! 
Thou,  Famagusta !  fall,  and  rise  no  more." 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Gaetana  Passerini. 


LIBERTY    SPEAKS. 


"  My  native  Genoa !  if  w^ith  tearless  eye. 
Prone  in  the  dust  thy  beauteous  form  I  see. 
Think  not  thy  daughter's  heart  is  dead  to  thee ; 
'T  were  treason,  O,  my  mother !  here  to  sigh, 
For  here,  majestic,  though  in  ashes,  lie 
Trophies  of  valor,  skill,  and  constancy  ; 
Here  at  each  glance,  each  footstep,  I  descry 
The  proud  memorials  of  thy  love  to  me. 

"  Conquest  to  noble  suflTering  lost  the  day, 
And  glorious  was  thy  vengeance  on  the  foe, 
' — He  saw  thee  perish,  yet  not  feel  the  blow." 
Thus  Liberty,  exulting  on  her  way,     '' 
Kiss'd  the  dear  relics,  moitldering  as  they  lay. 
And  cried:- —'In  ruins?  Yes  I — In  slavery?  A'b. 


DEPARTED  DAYS; 

A  RHAPSODY, 

WRITTEN    ON    VISITING    FULNECK,    IN    YORKSHIRE 

WHERE    THE    AUTHOR    WAS    EDUCATED, 

IN  THE  SPRING  OF  1806. 

Days  of  my  childhood,  hail ! 
Whose  gentle  spirits,  wandering  here, 
Down  in  the  visionary  vale. 
Before  mine  eyes  appear. 
Benignly  pensive,  beautifully  pale ; 
O  days  for  ever  fled,  for  ever  dear. 
Days  of  my  childhood,  hail ! 

Joys  of  my  early  hours : 

The  swallows  on  the  wing, 

The  bees  among  the  flowers, 

The  butterflies  of  spring. 

Light  as  their  lovely  moments  flew. 
Were  not  more  gay,  more  innocent  than  you : 

And  fugitive  as  they. 

Like  butterflies  in  spring, 

Like  bees  among  the  flowers. 

Like  swallows  on  the  wing. 
How  swift,  how  soon  ye  passed  away, 

Joys  of  my  early  hours  ! 

The  loud  Atlantic  ocean, 

On  Scotland's  rugged  breast. 

Rocks,  with  harmonious  motion. 

His  weary  waves  to  rest. 

And  gleaming  round  her  emerald  isles. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  sun-set  smiles. 

On  that  romantic  shore 

My  parents  hail'd  their  first-bom  boy ; 

A  mother's  pangs  my  mother  bore. 

My  father  felt  a  father's  joy  : 

My  father,  mother, — parents  now  no  more ' 

Beneath  the  Lion-Star  they  sleep. 

Beyond  the  western  deep, 
And  when  the  sun's  noon-glory  crests  the  waves, 
He  shines  without  a  shadow  on  their  graves.' 

1  In  the  islands  of  Barbadocs  and  Tobago. 

'^33 


150 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sweet  seas,  and  smiling  shores  ! 

When  no  tornado-demon  roars, 

Resembling  that  celestial  clime 

Where,  with  the  spirits  of  the  blest, 

Beyond  the  hurricanes  of  Time, 

From  all  their  toils  my  parents  rest : 

There  skies,  eternally  serene, 

Diffuse  ambrosial  balm 

Through  sylvan  isles  for  ever  green, 

O'er  seas  for  ever  calm  ; 
While  saints  and  angels,  kindling  in  his  rays, 
On  the  full  glory  of  the  Godhead  gaze, 
And  taste  and  prove,  in  that  transporting  sight, 
Joy  without  sorrow,  without  darkness  light. 

Light  without  darkness,  without  sorrow  joy, 
On  earth  are  all  unknown  to  man ; 
Here,  w'tiile  I  roved,  a  heedless  boy. 
Here,  while  through  paths  of  peace  I  ran, 
My  feet  were  vex'd  with  puny  snares, 
My  bosom  stung  w  ith  insect-cares  : 
But  ah !  what  light  and  little  things 
Are  childhood's  woes ! — they  break  no  rest ; 
Like  dew-drops  on  the  skylark's  wings, 
While  slumbering  in  his  grassy  nest. 
Gone  in  a  moment,  when  he  springs 
To  meet  the  morn  with  open  breast. 
As  o'er  the  eastern  hills  her  banners  glow. 
And  veil'd  in  mist  the  valley  sleeps  below. 

Like  him,  on  these  delightful  plains, 

I  taught,  with  fearless  voice, 

The  echoing  woods  to  sound  my  strains, 

The  mountains  to  rejoice. 

Hail !  to  the  trees  beneath  whose  shade, 

Rapt  into  worlds  unseen,  I  stray'd  ; 

Hail !  to  the  stream  that  purl'd  along 

In  hoarse  accordance  to  my  song  ; 

My  song,  that  pour'd  uncensured  lays. 

Tuned  to  a  dying  Savior's  praise. 

In  numbers  simple,  wild  and  sweet. 

As  were  the  flow^ers  beneath  my  feet ; — 

Those  flowers  are  dead, 

Those  numbers  fled, 

Yet  o'er  my  secret  thought, 

From  cold  Oblivion's  silent  gloom. 

Their  music  to  mine  ear  is  brought, 

Like  voices  from  the  tomb- 
As  yet  in  this  untainted  breast 

No  baneful  passion  burn'd, 

Ambition  had  not  banish'd  rest. 

Nor  Hope  had  earthw  ard  turn'd  ; 

Proud  Reason  still  in  shadow  lay, 

And  in  my  firmament  alone. 

Forerunner  of  the  day, 

The  dazzling  star  of  wonder  shone, 

By  whose  enchanting  ray 

Creation  open'd  on  my  earliest  view. 

And  all  was  beautiful,  for  all  was  new. 

Too  soon  my  mind's  awakening  powers 

Made  the  light  slumbers  flee. 

Then  vanish'd  with  the  golden  hours. 

The  morning  dreams  of  Infancy ; 
Sweet  were  those  slumbers,  dear  those  dreams  to  me ; 
And  yet  to  mournful  Memory  lingering  here. 
Sweet  are  those  slumbers,  and  those  dreams  are  dear; 


For  hither,  from  my  native  clime, 
The  hand  that  leads  Orion  forth. 
And  wheels  Arcturus  round  the  North, 
Brought  me,  in  Life's  exulting  prime  : 
— Blest  be  that  hand  ! — Whether  it  shed 
I  Mercies  or  judgments  on  my  head, 
Extend  the  sceptre  or  exalt  the  rod, — 
Blest  be  that  hand  ! — It  is  the  hand  of  God. 


HOPE. 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Serafino  Aquilano 


Hope,  unyielding  to  Despair, 
Springs  for  ever  fresh  and  fair , 
Earth's  serenest  prospects  fly, 
Hope's  enchantments  never  die. 

At  Fortune's  frown,  in  evil  hour. 
Though  honor,  wealth,  and  friends  depart, 
She  cannot  drive,  with  all  her  power 
This  lonely  solace  from  the  heart : 

And  while  this  the  soul  sustains. 

Fortune  still  unchanged  remains  ; 

^Vlleresoe'er  her  wheel  she  guides, 

Hope  upon  the  circle  rides. 

The  SvTens,  deep  in  ocean's  caves, 

Sing  while  abroad  the  tempests  roar. 

Expecting  soon  the  frantic  waves 

To  ripple  on  a  smiling  shore : 

In  the  whirlwind,  o'er  the  spray. 
They  behold  the  halcyon  play ; 
And  through  midnight  clouds  afar, 
Hope  lights  up  the  morning  star. 

This  pledge  of  bliss  in  future  years 

Makes  smooth  and  easy  every  toil ; 

The  swain,  who  sows  the  waste  with  tears, 

In  fancy  reaps  a  teeming  soil : 

What  though  mildew  blight  his  joy. 
Frost  or  flood  his  crops  destroy. 
War  compel  his  feet  to  roam, 
Hope  still  carols  Harvest-Home ! 

The  monarch  exiled  from  his  realm. 

The  slave  in  fetters  at  the  oar. 

The  seaman  sinking  by  the  helm. 

The  captive  on  his  dungeon-floor ; 

All  through  peril,  pain  and  death. 
Fondly  cling  to  parting  breath ; 
Glory,  freedom,  power,  are  past, 
But  the  dream  of  Hope  will  last. 

Weary  and  faint,  with  sicloiess  worn. 
Blind,  lame,  and  deaf,  and  bent  with  age. 
By  man  the  load  of  life  is  borne 
To  his  last  step  of  pilgrimage  : 

Though  the  branch  no  longer  shoot. 

Vigor  lingers  at  the  root, 

And  in  Winter's  dreariest  day, 

Hope  foreteHs  returning  May. 

When,  wTung  with  guilt,  the  wretch  would  end  i 
His  gloomy  days  in  sudden  night, 
Hope  comes,  an  unexpected  friend. 
To  win  him  back  to  hated  light : 

334 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


151 


"Hold!"  she  cries;  and  from  his  hand 
Plucks  the  suicidal  brand  ; 
"  Now  await  a  happier  doom, 
Hope  will  cheer  thee  to  the  tomb." 

When  virtue  droops,  as  comforts  fail, 
And  sore  afflictions  press  the  mind, 
Sweet  Hope  prolongs  her  pleasing  tale, 
Till  all  the  w  orld  again  looks  kind : 
Round  the  good  man's  dying  bed, 
Where  the  Avreck  of  Nature  spread, 
Hope  would  set  his  spirit  free, 
Crying — "  Immortality  ! " 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

A  Mother's  Love, — ^how  sweet  the  name! 

What  is  a  Mother's  love  ? 
— A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame. 

Enkindled  from  above, 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould  ; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold  ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  bring  a  helpless  babe  io  light, 

Then,  while  it  lies  forlorn. 
To  gaze  upon  that  dearest  sight, 

And  feel  herself  new-born. 
In  its  existence  lose  her  own. 
And  Hve  and  breathe  in  it  alone ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

Its  weakness  in  her  arms  to  bear  ; 

To  cherish  on  her  breast. 
Feed  it  from  Love's  ow^n  fountain  there, 

And  lull  it  there  to  rest ; 
Then  while  it  slumbers  watch  its  breath, 
As  if  to  guard  from  instant  death ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

To  mark  its  growth  from  day  to  day, 

Its  opening  charms  admire, 
Catch  from  its  eye  the  earliest  ray 

Of  iniellectual  fire  ; 
To  smile  and  listen  while  it  talks. 
And  lend  a  finger  when  it  walks ; 

This  is  a  Mother's  Love. 

And  can  a  Mother's  love  grow  cold  ? 

Can  she  forget  her  boy  ? 
His  pleading  innocence  behold, 

Nor  weep  for  grief — for  joy  ? 
A  Mother  may  forget  her  child. 
While  wolves  devour  it  on  the  wild  ; 

— Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

Ten  thousand  voices  answer  "  No ! " 
Ye  clasp  your  babes  and  kiss ; 

Your  bosoms  yearn,  your  eyes  o'erflow; 
Yet,  ah !  remember  this  ; 

The  infant,  rear'd  alone  for  earth, 

May  live,  may  die, — to  curse  his  birth  ; 
— Is  this  a  Mother's  Love  ? 

A  parent's  heart  may  prove  a  snare  ; 

The  child  she  loves  so  well. 
Her  hand  may  lead,  with  gentlest  care, 

Down  the  smooth  road  to  hell : 


Nourish  its  frame, — destroy  its  mind  : 
Thus  do  the  blind  mislead  the  blind. 
Even  with  a  iVIoiher's  Love. 

Blest  infant !  whom  his  mother  taught 

Early  to  seek  the  Lord, 
And  pour'd  upon  his  dawning  thought 

The  day-spring  of  the  word  ; 
This  was  the  lesson  to  her  son, 
— Time  is  Eternity  begun : 

Behold  that  Mother's  love.' 

Blest  Mother  !  who,  in  wisdom's  path, 

By  her  own  parent  trod. 
Thus  taught  her  son  to  flee  the  wrath, 

And  know  the  fear  of  God  : 
Ah !  youth,  like  him  enjoy  your  prime, 
Begin  Eternity  in  time, 

Taught  by  that  Mother's  Love.     • 

That  Mother's  Love ! — how  sweet  the  name 

What  was  that  Mother's  Love  ? 
— The  noblest,  purest,  tenderest  flame, 

That  kindles  from  above 
Within  a  heart  of  earthly  mould, 
As  much  of  heaven  as  heart  can  hold, 
Nor  through  eternity  grows  cold  : 
This  was  that  Mother's  love. 


THE  TIME-PIECE. 

Who  is  He,  so  swiftly  flying. 
His  career  no  eye  can  see  ? 
Who  are  They,  so  early  dying. 
From  their  birth  they  cease  to  be  ? 
Time  : — behold  his  pictured  face  ! 
Moments  : — can  you  count  their  race  ? 

Though,  with  aspect  deep-dissembling, 
Here  he  feigns  unconscious  sleep. 
Round  and  round  this  circle  trembling, 
Day  and  night  his  symbols  creep, 
W^hile  unseen,  through  earth  and  sky. 
His  unwearying  pinions  ply. 

Hark !  what  petty  pulses,  beating. 
Spring  new  moments  into  light ; 
Every  pulse,  its  stroke  repeating. 
Sends  its  moment  back  to  night ; 
Yet  not  one  of  all  the  train 
Comes  uncall'd,  or  flits  in  vain. 

In  the  highest  realms  of  glory, 
Spirits  trace,  before  the  throne, 
On  eternal  scrolls,  the  story 
Of  each  little  moment  flo',vn  ; 
Every  deed,  and  word,  and  thought. 
Through  the  whole  creation  wrought. 

W^ere  the  volume  of  a  minute 
Thus  to  mortal  sight  unroll'd. 
More  of  sin  and  sorrow  in  it. 
More  of  man,  might  we  behold. 
Than  on  History's  broadest  page 
In  the  relics  of  an  age. 


2  Tim  c.  i,  v.  5,  and  c.  iii,  v.  14, 15. 

335 


152 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Who  could  bear  the  revelation  ? 
Who  abide  the  sudden  test  ? 
— Widi  instinctive  consternation 
Hands  would  cover  every  breast, 
Loudest  tongues  at  once  be  hush'd, 
Pride  in  all  its  writhings  crush'd. 

Who,  with  leer  malign  exploring, 
On  his  neighbor's  shame  durst  look  ? 
Would  not  each,  intensely  poring 
On  that  record  in  the  book. 
Which  his  inmost  soul  reveal'd, 
Wish  its  leaves  for  ever  seal'd? 

Seal'd  they  are  for  years,  and  ages, 
Till, — the  earth's  last  circuit  run, 
Empire  changed  through  all  its  stages, 
Risen  and  set  the  latest  sun, — 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  land 
Shall  a  midnight  Angel  stand  : 

Stand — and,  while  the  abysses  tremble, 
Swear  that  Time  shall  be  no  more : 
Quick  and  Dead  shall  then  assemble, 
Men  and  Demons  range  before 
That  tremendous  judgment-seat, 
Where  both  worlds  at  issue  meet. 

Time  himself,  with  all  his  legions, 

Days,  Months,  Years,  since  JN'ature's  birth, 

Shall  revive, — and  from  all  regions, 

Singling  out  the  sons  of  earth. 

With  their  glory  or  disgrace. 

Charge  their  spenders  face  to  face. 

Every  moment  of  my  being 
Then  shall  pass  before  mine  eyes  : 
— God,  all-searching  !  God,  all-seeing ! 
Oh  !  appease  them,  ere  they  rise  j 
Warn'd  1  fly,  I  fly  to  Thee : 
God  be  merciful  to  me  ! 


STANZAS 

TO  niE  MEMORY  OF  THE  REV.  THOMAS  SPENCER,  OF 
IjVERPOOL,  who  was  drowned,  WHILE  BATHING 
IM  THE  TIDE,  ON  THE  5tH  OF  AUGUST,  1811,  IN 
HIS   21ST  YEAR. 


Thy  way  is  in  the  sea,  and  thy  path  in  the  great  waters ;  and 
thy  footsteps  arc  not  known. — Psalm  Ixxvii.  19. 


I  WILL  not  sing  a  mortal's  praise ; 
To  Thee  I  consecrate  my  lays. 

To  whom  my  powers  belong ! 
These  gifts  upon  thine  altar  strowTJ, 
O  God  !  accept — accept  thine  own  ; 
My  gifts  are  Thine, — be  Thine  alone 

The  glory  of  my  song. 

In  earth  and  ocean,  sky  and  air, 
All  that  is  excellent  and  fair, 

Seen,  felt,  or  understood. 
From  one  eternal  cause  descends, 
To  one  eternal  centre  tends, 
With  God  begins,  continues,  ends. 

The  source  and  stream  of  good. 


I  worship  not  the  Sun  at  noon, 

The  wandering  Stars,  the  changing  Moon, 

The  Wind,  the  Flood,  the  Flame ; 
I  will  not  bow  the  votive  knee 
To  Wisdom,  Virtue,  Liberty  ; 
"  There  is  no  God  but  God,"  for  me, 

Jehovah  is  his  name. 

Him  through  all  nature  I  explore. 
Him  in  his  creatures  I  adore, 

Around,  beneath,  above ; 
But  clearest  in  the  human  mind. 
His  bright  resemblance  when  I  find, 
Grandeur  with  purity  combined, 

I  most  admire  and  love. 

Oh !  there  was  One, — on  earth  awhile 
He  dwelt ; — but  transient  as  a  smile 

That  turns  into  a  tear. 
His  beauteous  image  pass'd  us  by ; 
He  came,  like  lightning,  from  the  sky, 
He  seem'd  as  dazzling  to  the  eye, 

As  prompt  to  disappear. 

Mild,  in  his  undissembling  mien, 
Were  genius,  candor,  meekness  seen ; 

The  lips,  that  loved  the  truth; 
The  single  eye,  whose  glance  sublime 
Look'd  to  eternity  through  time ; 
The  soul,  whose  hopes  were  wont  to  climb 

Above  the  joys  of  youth. 

Of  Old,  before  the  lamp  grew  dark, 
Reposing  near  the  curlain'd  ark. 

The  child  of  Hannah's  prayer 
Heard,  through  the  temple's  silent  round, 
A  living  voice,  nor  knew  the  sound 
That  thrice  alarm'd  him,  ere  he  found 

The  Lord,  who  chose  him  there.' 

Thus  early  call'd,  and  strongly  moved, 
A  prophet  from  a  child,  approved, 

Spencer  his  course  began  ; 
From  strength  to  strength,  from  grace  to  grace' 
Swiftest  and  foremost  in  the  race, 
He  carried  victory  in  his  face ; 

He  triumph'd  as  he  ran. 

How  short  his  day ! — the  glorious  prize, 
To  our  slow  hearts  and  failing  eyes, 

Appear'd  too  quickly  won: 
— The  warrior  rush'd  into  the  field 
With  arm  invincible  to  wield 
The  Spirit's  sword,  the  Spirit's  shield, 

When,  lo !  the  fight  was  done. 

The  loveliest  star  of  evening's  train 
Sets  early  in  the  western  main, 

And  leaves  the  world  in  night  ; 
The  brightest  star  of  morning's  host. 
Scarce  risen,  in  brighter  beams  is  lost ; 
Thus  sunk  his  form  on  ocean's  coast. 

Thus  sprang  his  soul  to  light. 


1  1  Sam.  chap.  iii. 


336 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


153 


Who  shall  forbid  the  eye  to  weep, 
That  saw  hhn,  from  the  ravening  deep, 

Pluck'd  like  the  hon's  prey  ? 
For  ever  bow'd  his  honor 'd  head, 
The  spirit  in  a  moment  fled, 
The  heart  of  friendship  cold  and  dead, 

The  limbs  a  wreath  of  clay ! 

Revolving  his  mysterious  lot, 

I  mourn  him,  but  I  praise  him  not  ; 

Glory  to  God  be  given, 
Who  sent  him,  like  the  radiant  bow. 
His  covenant  of  peace  to  show, 
Athwart  the  breaking  storm  to  glow 

Then  vanish  into  heaven. 

O  Church !  to  whom  that  youth  is  dear, 
The  Angel  of  thy  mercies  here, 

Behold  the  path  he  trod, 
"  A  milky  way  "  through  midnight  skies ! 
— Behold  the  grave  in  which  he  lies, 
Even  from  this  dust  thy  prophet  cries, 
''Prepare  to  meet  thy  God." 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


Job,  chap.  xiv. 


How  few  and  evil  are  thy  days, 
Man,  of  a  woman  born ! 
Trouble  and  peril  haunt  thy  ways : 
— Forth  like  a  flower  at  morn. 
The  tender  infant  springs  to  light. 
Youth  blossoms  with  the  breeze. 
Age,  withering  age,  is  crept  ere  night ; 
— Man  like  a  shadow  flees. 

And  dost  Thou  look  on  such  a  one  ? 

Will  God  to  judgment  call 

A  worm,  for  what  a  worm  hath  done 

Against  the  Lord  of  all  ? 

As  fail  the  waters  from  the  deep. 

As  summer  brooks  run  dry, 

Man  lieth  down  in  dreamless  sleep ; 

— Our  hfe  is  vanity. 

Man  lieth  down,  no  more  to  wake, 

Till  yonder  arching  sphere 

Shall  with  a  roll  of  thunder  break. 

And  nature  disappear. 

— Oh  I  hide  me,  till  thy  wrath  be  past, 

Thau,  who  canst  kill  or  save ; 

Hide  me,  where  hope  may  anchor  fast 

In  my  Redeemer's  grave. 


THE  VISIBLE  CREATION. 

The  God  of  Nature  and  of  Grace 

In  all  his  works  appears  ; 

His  goodness  through  the  earth  we  trace, 

His  grandeur  in  the  spheres. 

Behold  this  fair  and  fertile  globe. 

By  Him  in  wisdom  plann'd  ; 

'Twas  He,  who  girded  hke  a  robe, 

The  ocean  round  the  land. 

43  2D 


Lift  to  the  firmament  your  eye ; 
Thither  his  path  pursue  ; 
His  glory,  boundless  as  the  sky, 
O'erwhelms  the  wondering  view. 

He  bow^s  the  heavens — the  mountains  stand 

A  high-way  for  their  God  ; 

He  walks  amidst  the  desert-land, 

— 'T  is  Eden  where  He  trod. 

The  forests  in  his  strength  rejoice ; 
Hark !  on  the  evening  breeze, 
As  once  of  old,  the  Lord  God's  voice 
Is  heard  among  the  trees. 

Here  on  the  hills  He  feeds  his  herds. 
His  flocks  on  yonder  plains  ; 
His  praise  is  warbled  by  the  birds; 
— O  jould  we  catch  their  strains ! 

Mount  with  the  lark,  and  bear  our  song 

Up  to  the  gates  of  liglit. 

Or  with  the  nightingale  prolong 

Our  numbers  through  the  night ! 

In  every  stream  his  bounty  flows 
Diflfusing  joy  and  wealth  ; 
In  every  breeze  his  spirit  blows 
— The  breath  of  life  and  health 

His  blessings  fall  in  plenteous  showers 
Upon  the  lap  of  earth. 
That  teems  with  foliage,  fruit,  and  flowers, 
And  rings  \\i\h.  infant  mirth. 

If  God  hath  made  this  world  so  fair. 
Where  sin  and  death  abound  ; 
How  beautiful  beyond  compare 
Will  Paradise  be  found  ! 


SONNET. 


Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Gaetana  Passerini. 

If  in  the  field  I  meet  a  smiling  flower. 
Methinks  it  whispers,  "  God  created  me, 
And  I  to  Him  devote  my  little  hour, 
In  lonely  sweetness  and  humihty." 
If,  where  the  forest's  darkest  shadows  lower, 
A  serpent  quick  and  venomous  I  see. 
It  seems  to  say, — "  I,  too,  extol  the  power 
Of  Him,  who  caused  me,  at  his  Will,  to  be." 

The  fountain  purling,  and  the  river  strong. 
The  rocks,  the  trees,  the  mountains,  raise  one  song; 
"Glory  to  God!"  re-echoes  in  mine  ear: — 
Faithless  were  I,  in  wilful  error  blind. 
Did  I  not  Him  in  all  his  creatures  find. 
His  voice  through  heaven,  and  earth,  and  ocean  hear 


SONNET. 


Imitated  from  the  Itahan  of  Giambattista  Cotta. 


I  SAW  the  eternal  God,  in  robes  of  light. 
Rise  from  his  .throng, — to  judgment  forth  He  cnme 
His  presence  pass'd  before  me,  like  the  flame 
That  fires  the  forest  in  the  depth  of  night , 

337 


154 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whirlwind  and  storm,  amazement  and  affright, 
Compass'd  his  path,  and  shook  all  Nature's  frame. 
When  from  the  heaven  of  heavens,  -with  loud  acclaim, 
To  earth  he  wing'd  his  instantaneous  flight. 

As  some  triumphal  oak,  whose  boughs  have  spread 
Their  changing  foliage  through  a  thousand  years, 
Bows  to  the  rushing  wind  its  glorious  head, 
The  universal  arch  of  yonder  spheres 
Sunk  with  the  pressure  of  its  Maker's  tread. 
And  earth's  foundations  quaked  with  mortal  fears. 


SONNET. 

THE  CRUCIFIXION. 
Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Crescembini. 


I  ask'd  the  Heavens — "  What  foe  to  God  halh  done 
This  unexampled  deed  ?" — The  Heavens  exclaim, 
"  'T  was  JMan ; — and  we  in  horror  snatch'd  the  sun 
From  such  a  spectacle  of  guilt  and  shame." 

I  ask'd  the  Sea : — the  Sea  in  fury  boil'd, 
A  nd  answer'd  with  his  voice  of  storms, — "  'T  was  Man; 
]\Iy  waves  in  panic  at  his  crime  recoil'd. 
Disclosed  the  abyss,  and  from  the  centre  ran." 

I  ask'd  the  Earth ; — the  Earth  replied  aghast, 

"  'T  was  man ; — and  such  strange  pangs  my  bosom  rent. 

That  still  I  groan  and  shudder  at  the  past."' 

— To  Man,  gay,  smiling,  thoughtless  JSIan,  I  went, 

And  ask'd  him  next : — He  turn'd  a  scornful  eye, 

Shook  his  proud  head,  and  deign'd  me  no  reply. 


THE  BIBLE. 


What  is  the  world  ? — A  wildering  maze. 
Where  Sin  hath  track'd  ten  thousand  ways. 

Her  victims  to  ensnare  ; 
All  broad,  and  winding,  and  aslope, 
All  tempting  with  perfidious  hope, 

All  ending  in  despair. 

Millions  of  pilgrims  throng  those  roads, 
Bearing  their  baubles,  or  their  loads, 

Down  to  eternal  night : 
— One  humble  path,  that  never  bends, 
Narrow,  and  rough,  and  steep,  ascends 

From  darkness  into  light. 

Is  there  a  Guide  to  show  that  path? 
The  Bible  : — He  alone,  who  haih 

The  Bible,  need  not  stray  : 
Vet  he  who  hath,  and  will  not  give 
That  heavenly  Guide  to  all  that  live, 

Himself  shall  lose  the  way. 


INSTRUCTION. 

From  heaven  descend  the  drops  of  dew, 
From  heaven  the  gracious  showers, 
Earth's  winter-aspect  to  renew, 
And  clothe  the  spring  with  flowers ; 


From  heaven  the  beams  of  morning  flow, 
That  melt  the  gloom  of  night ; 
From  heaven  the  evening  breezes  blow. 
Health,  fragrance,  and  delight. 

Like  genial  dew,  like  fertile  showers, 

The  words  of  wisdom  fall, 

Awaken  man's  unconscious  powers. 

Strength  out  of  weakness  call : 

Like  morning  beams  they  strike  the  mind, 

Its  loveliness  reveal ; 

And  softer  than  the  evening  wind. 

The  wounded  spirit  heal. 

As  dew  and  rain,  as  light  and  air, 

From  heaven  Instruction  came  ; 

The  waste  of  Nature  to  repair, 

Kindle  a  sacred  flame  ; 

A  flame  to  purify  the  earth, 

Exalt  her  sons  on  high, 

And  train  them  for  their  second  birth, 

— Their  birth  beyond  the  sky. 

Albion!  on  every  human  soul. 

By  thee  be  knowledge  shed. 

Far  as  the  ocean-waters  roll. 

Wide  as  the  shores  are  spread  : 

Truth  makes  thy  children  free  at  home; 

Oh  !  that  thy  flag,  unfurl'd, 

Might  shine,  where'er  thy  children  roam, 

Truth's  banner,  round  the  world. 


THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER. 


Occasioned  by  the  Sadden  Death  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Taylor ; 
after  having  declared,  in  his  last  Sermon,  on  a  preceding 
evening,  that  he  hoped  to  die  as  an  old  soldier  of  Jesus  Chiist, 
with  his  sword  in  his  hand. 


"  Servant  of  God !  well  done  ; 

Rest  from  thy  loved  employ ; 

The  battle  fought,  the  victory  won. 

Enter  thy  IVIaster's  joy." 

— The  voice  at  midnight  came ; 

He  started  up  to  hear, 

A  mortal  arrow  pierced  his  frame: 

He  fell, — but  felt  no  fear. 

Tranquil  amidst  alarms. 
It  found  him  in  the  field, 
A  veteran  slumbering  on  his  arms, 
Beneath  his  red-cross  shield  : 
His  sword  was  in  his  hand, 
Still  warm  with  recent  fight ; 
Ready  that  moment,  at  command. 
Through  rock  and  steel  to  smile. 

It  was  a  two-edged  blade. 

Of  heavenly  temper  keen  ; 

And  double  were  the  wowids  it  made, 

Where'er  it  smote  between  : 

'T  was  death  to  sin  ; — 't  was  life 

To  all  that  mourn'd  for  sin  ; 

It  kindled  and  it  silenced  strife. 

Made  war  and  peace  within. 

333 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.            '                              155 

Oft  with  its  fiery  force 

No: — my  soul,  in  God  rejoice; 

His  arm  had  quell'd  the  foe, 

Through  the  gloom  his  light  I  see, 

And  laid,  resistless  in  his  course, 

In  the  silence  hear  his  voice. 

The  alien-armies  low. 

And  his  hand  is  over  me. 

Bent  on  such  glorious  toils, 
The  world  to  him  was  loss ; 

WTien  I  slumber  in  the  tomb, 

Yet  all  his  trophies,  all  his  spoils, 
He  hung  upon  the  cross. 

He  wiM  guard  my  resting-place  ; 
Fearless  in  the  day  of  doom, 
May  I  stand  before  his  face ! 

At  midnight  came  the  cry, 

"  To  meet  thy  God  prepare ! " 

He  woke, — and  caught  his  Captain's  eye  ; 
Then,  strong  in  faith  and  prayer, 

A  NIGHT  IN  A  STAGE-COACH, 

His  spirit,  with  a  bound, 

BEING  A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  WAV  BETWEEN  LONDON 

Burst  its  encumbering  clay  ; 

AND  BRISTOL,  SEPT.  23,  1815. 

His  tent,  at  sun-rise,  on  the  ground, 

A  darken'd  ruin  lay. 

I  TRAVEL  all  the  irksome  night. 

By  ways  to  me  unknown ; 

The  pains  of  death  are  past, 

I  travel,  like  a  bird  in  flight. 

Labor  and  sorrow  cease. 

Onward,  and  all  alone. 

And  Ufe's  long  warfare  closed  at  last. 
His  soul  is  found  in  peace. 
Soldier  of  Christ!  well  done; 
Praise  be  thy  new  employ ; 
And,  while  eternal  ages  run. 
Rest  in  thy  Savior's  joy. 


ON  THE  ROYAL  INFANT, 

STILL-BORN,  NOV.  5,  1817. 

A  THRONE  on  earth  awaited  thee ; 

A  nation  long'd  to  see  thy  face, 

Heir  to  a  glorious  ancestry. 

And  father  of  a  mightier  race. 

\^ain  hope!  that  throne  thou  must  not  fill; 

Thee  may  that  nation  ne'er  behold  ; 

Thine  ancient  house  is  heirless  still, 

Thy  line  shall  never  be  unroU'd. 

Yet  while  we  mourn  thy  flight  from  earth. 
Thine  was  a  destiny  sublime  ; 
Caught  up  to  Paradise  in  birfh, 
Pluck'd  by  Eternity  from  Time. 

The  Mother  knew  her  offspring  dead  : 
Oh !  was  it  grief,  or  was  it  love, 
That  broke  her  heart  ? — The  spirit  fled 
To  seek  her  nameless  child  above. 

Led  by  his  natal  star,  she  trod 
The  path  to  heaven : — the  meeting  there. 
And  how  they  stood  before  their  God, 
The  day  of  judgment  shall  declare. 


A  MIDNIGHT  THOUGHT. 

In  a  land  of  strange  delight, 
My  transported  spirit  stray'd, 
I  awake  where  all  is  night, 
— Silence,  solitude,  and  shade. 

Is  the  dream  of  Nature  flown  ? 
Is  the  universe  destroy'd, 
Man  extinct,  and  I  alone 
Breathing  through  the  formless  void  ? 


In  vain  I  close  my  weary  eyes. 

They  will  not,  cannot  sleep. 
But,  like  the  watchers  of  the  slues. 

Their  twinkling  vigils  keep. 

My  thoughts  are  wandering  wild  and  far  ; 

From  earth  to  heaven  they  dart; 
Now  wing  their  flight  from  star  to  star. 

Now  dive  into  my  heart. 

Backward  they  roll  the  tide  of  time, 
And  live  through  vanish'd  5^ears ; 

Or  hold  their  "colloquy  sublime" 
With  future  hopes  and  fears  ; — 

Then  passing  joys  and  present  woes 
Chase  through  my  troubled  mind; 

Repose  still  seeking, — but  repose 
Not  for  a  moment  find. 

So  yonder  lone  and  lovely  moon 
Gleams  on  the  clouds  gone  by. 

Illumines  those  around  her  noon. 
Yet  westward  points  her  eye. 

Nor  \^■ind  nor  flood  her  course  delay, 
Through  heaven  I  see  her  glide ; 
'  She  never  pauses  on  her  way. 
She  never  turns  aside. 

With  anxious  heart  and  throbbing  brain 
Strength,  patience,  spirits  gone. 

Pulses  of  fire  in  every  vein. 
Thus,  thus  I  journey  on. 

But  soft! — in  Nature's  failing  hour. 

Up  springs  a  breeze, — I  feel 
Its  balmy  breath,  its  cordial  power, 

— A  power  to  soothe  and  heal. 

Lo!  grey,  and  gold,  and  crimson  streaks 

The  gorgeous  east  adorn, 
While  o'er  the  empurpled  mountain  breaks 

The  glory  of  the  morn. 

Insensibly  the  stars  retire, 

Exhaled  like  drops  of  dew ; 
Now  through  an  arch  of  living  fire, 

The  sun  comes  forth  to  view. 

33.9 


156 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  hills,  the  vales,  the  waters  burn 

With  his  enkindling  rays, 
No  sooner  touch'd  than  they  return 

A  tributary  blaze. 

His  quickening  light  on  me  descends, 

His  cheering  warmth  I  own ; 
Upward  to  him  my  spirit  lends, 

But  worships  God  alone. 

0  that  on  me,  with  beams  benign. 
His  countenance  would  turn! 

1  too  should  then  arise  and  shine, 
— Arise,  and  shine,  and  burn. 

Slowly  I  raise  my  languid  head  ; 

Pain  and  soul-sickness  cease, 
The  phantoms  of  dismay  are  fled. 

And  health  returns,  and  peace. 

Where  is  the  beauty  of  the  scene, 

Which  silent  night  displayed  ? 
The  clouds,  the  stars,  the  blue  serene, 

The  moving  light  and  shade  ? 

All  gone ! — the  moon,  erewhile  so  bright, 

Veil'd  with  a  dusky  shroud. 
Seems,  in  the  sun's  overpowering  light. 

The  fragment  of  a  cloud. 

At  length,  I  reach  my  journey's  end  ; 

— Welcome  that  well-known  face  I 
I  meet  a  brother  and  a  friend ; 

I  find  a  resting-place. 

Just  such  a  pilgrimage  is  life  ; 

Hurried  from  stage  to  stage, 
Our  wishes  with  our  lot  at  strife. 

Through  childhood  to  old  age. 

The  world  is  seldom  what  it  seems ; — 

To  man,  who  dim.ly  sees. 
Realities  appear  as  dreams, 

And  dreams,  realities. 

The  Christian's  years,  though  slow  their  flight, 

When  he  is  call'd  away  ; 
Are  but  the  watches  of  a  night. 

And  death  the  dawn  of  day. 


THE  REIGN  OF  SPRING. 

Who  loves  not  Spring's  voluptuous  hours, 
The  carnival  of  birds  and  flowers  ? 
Yet  who  would  choose,  however  dear, 
That  Spring  should  revel  all  the  year  ? 
— Who  loves  not  Summer's  splendid  reign, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  main  ? 
Yet  who  would  choose,  however  bright, 
A  dog-day  noon  without  a  night  ? 
— Who  loves  not  Autumn's  joyous  round, 
When  corn,  and  wine,  and  oil  abound  ? 
Yet  who  would  choose,  however  gay, 
A  year  of  unrenew'd  decay  ? 
— Who  loves  not  Winter's  awful  form  ? 
The  sphere-born  music  of  the  storm  ? 


Yet  who  would  choose,  how  grand  soever. 
The  shortest  day  to  last  for  ever  ? 

'T  was  in  that  age  renouTi'd,  remote. 
When  all  was  true  that  Esop  wrote  ; 
And  in  that  land  of  fair  Ideal, 
Where  all  that  poets  dream  is  real ; 
Upon  a  day  of  annual  state, 
The  Seasons  met  in  high  debate. 
There  blush'd  young  Spring  '.n  maiden-pride, 
Blithe  Summer  look'd  a  gorgeous  bride. 
Staid  Autumn  moved  with  matron-grace. 
And  beldame  Winter  pursed  her  face. 
Dispute  grew  wild ;  all  talk'd  together  ; 
The  four  at  once  made  wondrous  weather ; 
Nor  one  (whate'er  the  rest  had  shown), 
Heard  any  reason  but  her  own, 
While  each  (for  nothing  else  was  clear), 
Claira'd  the  whole  circle  of  the  year. 

Spring,  in  possession  of  the  field, 
Compell'd  her  sisters  soon  to  yield  ; 
They  part, — resolved  elsewhere  to  try 
A  twelvemonth's  empire  of  the  sky  ; 
And  calling  off  their  airy  legions, 
Alighted  in  adjacent  regions. 
Spring  o'er  the  eastern  champaign  smiled. 
Fell  Winter  ruled  the  nortl^ern  w  ild  ; 
Summer  pursued  the  sun's  red  car. 
But  Autumn  loved  the  twilight  star. 

As  Spring  parades  her  new  domain, 
Love,  Beauty,  Pleasure,  hold  her  train ; 
Her  footsteps  wake  the  flowers  beneath, 
That  start,  and  blush,  and  sweetly  breathe ; 
Her  gales  on  nimble  pinions  rove, 
And  shake  to  foliage  every  grove ; 
Her  voice,  in  dell  and  thicket  heard, 
Cheers  on  the  nest  the  mother-bird  ; 
The  ice-lock'd  streams,  as  if  they  felt 
Her  touch,  to  liquid  diamond  melt ; 
The  lambs  around  her  bleat  and  jtlay ; 
The  serpent  flings  his  slough  away. 
And  shines  in  orient  colors  dight, 
A  flexile  ray  of  living  light. 
Nature  unbinds  her  wintry  shroud, 
(As  the  soft  sunshine  melts  the  cloud). 
With  infant  gambols  sports  along, 
Bounds  into  youth,  and  soars  in  song. 
The  morn  impearls  her  locks  with  dew ; 
Noon  spreads  a  sky  of  boundless  blue ; 
The  rainbow  spans  the  evening  scene. 
The  night  is  silent  and  serene, 
Save  when  her  lonely  minstrel  wrings 
The  heart  with  sweetness,  while  he  sings. 
— Who  would  not  wish,  unrivall'd  here. 
That  Spring  might  frolic  all  the  year  ?       ^ 

Three  months  are  fled,  and  still  she  reigns, 
Exulting  queen  o'er  hills  and  plains  ; 
The  birds  renew  their  nuptial  vow, 
Nestlings  themselves  are  lovers  now  ; 
Fresh  broods  each  bending  bough  receives 
Till  feathers  far  outnumber  leaves  ; 
But  kites  in  circles  swim  the  air, 
And  sadden  music  to  despair. 

340 


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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


157 


The  stagnant  pools,  the  quaking  bogs, 
Teem,  croak,  and  crawl  with  hordes  of  frogs ; 
The  matted  woods,  the  infected  earth, 
Are  venomous  with  reptile  birth  ; 
Armies  of  locusts  cloud  the  skies ; 
With  beetles,  hornets,  gnats  with  flies, 
Interminable  warfare  wage, 
And  madden  heaven  with  insect-rage. 

The  flowers  are  wither'd — sun  nor  dew 
Their  fallen  glories  shall  renew  ; 
The  flowers  are  wither'd — germ  nor  seed 
Ripen  in  garden,  wild,  or  mead  : 
The  corn-fields  shoot ; — their  blades,  alas ! 
Run  riot  in  luxuriant  grass. 
The  tainted  flocks,  the  drooping  kine, 
In  famine  of  abundance  pine. 
Where  vegetation,  sour,  unsound. 
And  loathsome,  rots  and  rankles  round  : 
Nature  with  nature  seems  at  strife  ; 
Nothing  can  live  but  monstrous  life 
By  death  engender'd ; — food  and  breath 
Are  turn'd  to  elements  of  death ; 
And  where  the  soil  his  victims  strew, 
Corruption  quickens  them  anew. 

But  ere  the  year  was  half  expired. 
Spring  saw  her  folly,  and  retired  ; 
Yoked  her  light  chariot  to  a  breeze. 
And  mounted  to  the  Pleiades ; 
Content  with  them  to  rest  or  play 
Along  the  calm  nocturnal  way ; 
Till,  heaven's  remaining  circuit  run, 
They  meet  the  pale  hybe  nal  sun, 
And  gaily  mingling  in  his  blaze, 
Hail  the  true  dawn  of  vernal  days. 


THE  REIGN  OF  SUMMER. 

The  hurricanes  are  fled ;  the  rains, 
That  plow'd  the  mountains,  wreck'd  the  plains. 
Have  pass'd  away  before  the  wind, 
And  left  a  wilderness  behind. 
As  if  an  ocean  had  been  there 
Exhaled,  and  left  its  channels  bare. 
But,  with  a  new  and  sudden  birth, 
Nature  replenishes  the  earth; 
Plants,  flowers,  and  shrubs,  o'er  all  the  land, 
So  promptly  rise,  so  thickly  stand. 
As  if  they  heard  a  voice,  and  came 
Each  at  the  calling  of  its  name. 
The  tree,  by  tempest  stript  and  rent, 
Expands  its  verdure  like  a  tent, 
Beneath  whose  shade,  in  weary  length, 
The  enormous  lion  rests  his  strength. 
For  blood,  in  dreams  of  hunting,  burns, 
Or,  chased  himself,  to  fight  returns ; 
Grow'ls  in  his  sleep,  a  dreary  sound, 
Grinds  his  wedged  teeth,  and  spurns  the  ground; 
While  monkeys,  in  grotesque  amaze, 
Down  from  their  bending  perches  gaze, 
But  when  he  lifts  his  eye  of  fire, 
Quick  to  the  topmost  boughs  retire. 

Loud  o'er  the  mountains  bleat  the  flocks ; 
The  goat  is  bounding  on  the  rocks ; 

2D2 


Far  in  the  valleys  range  the  herds  ; 
The  welkin  gleams  with  flitting  birds. 
Whose  plumes  such  gorgeous  tints  adorn, 
They  seem  the  ofl!spring  of  the  morn. 
From  nectar'd  flowers  and  groves  of  spice. 
Earth  breathes  the  air  of  Paradise  ; 
Her  mines  their  hidden  wealth  betray, 
Treasures  of  darkness  burst  to  day ; 
O'er  golden  sands  the  rivers  glide. 
And  pearls  and  amber  track  the  tide. 
Of  every  sensual  bliss  possest, 
Man  riots  here  ; — but  is  he  blest  ? 
And  would  he  choose,  for  ever  bright. 
This  Summer-day  without  a  night  ? 
For  here  hath  Summer  fix'd  her  throne, 
Intent  to  reign, — and  reign  alone. 

Daily  the  sun,  in  his  career. 
Hotter  and  higher,  climbs  the  sphere, 
Till  from  the  zenith,  in  his  rays. 
Without  a  cloud  or  shadow,  blaze 
The  realms  beneath  him : — in  his  march, 
On  the  blue  key-stone  of  heaven's  arch. 
He  stands  : — air,  earth,  and  ocean  lie 
Within  the  presence  of  his  eye. 
The  wheel  of  Nature  seems  to  rest, 
Nor  rolls  him  onward  to  the  west. 
Till  thrice  three  days  of  noon  unchanged 
That  torrid  clime  have  so  deranged. 
Nine  years  may  not  the  wrong  repair ; 
But  Summer  checks  the  ravage  there ; 
Yet  still  enjoins  the  sun  to  steer 
By  the  stern  dog-star  rouTid  the  year. 
With  dire  extremes  of  day  and  night, 
Tartarean  gloom,  celestial  light. 

In  vain  the  gaudy  season  shines, 
Her  beauty  fades,  her  power  dechnes ; 
Then  first  her  bosom  felt  a  care ; 
— No  healing  breeze  embalm'd  the  air. 
No  mist  the  mountain-tops  bedew'd. 
Nor  shovver  the  arid  vale  renew'd  ; 
The  herbage  shrunk ;  the  plowman's  toil 
Scatter'd  to  dust  the  crumbling  soil ; 
Blossoms  were  shed  ;  the  umbrageous  wood, 
Laden  with  sapless  foliage,  stood  ; 
The  streams,  impoverish'd  day  by  day, 
Lessen'd  insensibly  away  4 
Where  cattle  sought,  with  piteous  moans, 
The  vanish'd  lymph,  'midst  burning  stones. 
And  tufts  of  wither'd  reeds,  that  fill 
The  wonted  channel  of  the  rill ; 
Till,  stung  with  hornets,  mad  with  thirst. 
In  sudden  rout,  away  they  burst. 
Nor  rest,  till  where  some  channel  deep 
Gleams  in  small  pools,  whose  waters  sleep ; 
There  with  huge  draught  and  eager  eye 
Drink  for  existence, — drink  and  die ! 

But  direr  evils  soon  arose. 
Hopeless,  unmitigable  woes ; 
Man  proves  the  shock  ;  through  all  his  veins 
The  frenzy  of  the  season  reigns ; 
With  pride,  lust,  rage,  ambition  blind, 
He  burns  in  every  fire  of  mind. 
Which  kindles  from  insane  desire, 
Or  fellest  hatred  can  inspire  ; 

341 


158 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Reckless  whatever  ill  befall, 

He  dares  to  do  and  suffer  all 

That  heart  can  think,  that  arm  can  deal, 

Or  out  of  hell  a  fury  feel. 

There  stood  in  that  romantic  clime, 
A  mountain,  awfully  sublime  : 
O'er  many  a  league  the  basement  spread, 
It  tower'd  in  many  an  airy  head. 
Height  over  height, — now  gay,  now  wild. 
The  peak  with  ice  eternal  piled ; 
Pure  in  mid-heaven,  that  crystal  cone 
A  diadem  of  glory  shone  ; 
Reflecting  in  the  night-fall'n  sky 
The  beams  of  day's  departed  eye ; 
Or  holding,  ere  the  dawn  begun, 
Communion  with  the  unrisen  sun. 
The  cultured  sides  were  clothed  with  woods. 
Vineyards,  and  fields,  or  track'd  with  floods, 
Whose  glacier-fountains,  hid  on  high, 
Sent  down  their  rivers  from  the  sky. 
O'er  plains,  that  mark'd  its  gradual  scale, 
On  sunny  slope,  in  shelter'd  vale, 
Earth's  universal  tenant, — He, 
Who  lives  wherever  life  may  be. 
Sole,  social,  fix'd,  or  free  to  roam. 
Always  and  everywhere  at  home, 
Man  pitch'd  his  tents,  adorn'd  his  bowers, 
Built  temples,  palaces,  and  tow^ers. 
And  made  that  Alpine  world  his  own, 
— The  miniature  of  every  zone. 
From  brown  savannas  parch'd  below 
To  ridges  of  cerulean  snow. 

Those  high-lands  form'd  a  last  retreat 
From  rabid  Summer's  fatal  heat ; 
Though  not  unfelt  her  fervors  there. 
Vernal  and  cool  the  middle  air ; 
While  from  the  icy  pyramid 
Streams  of  unfailing  freshness  slid. 
That  long  had  slaked  the  thirsty  land. 
Till  avarice,  with  insatiate  hand. 
Their  currents  check'd ;  in  sunless  caves. 
And  rock-bound  dells,  ingulf'd  the  waves. 
And  thence  in  scanty  measures  doled, 
Or  turn'd  heaveii's  bounty  into  gold. 
Ere  long  the  dwellers  on  the  plain 
Murmur'd — their  murmurs  were  in  vain ; 
Petition'd — but  their  prajers  were  spurn'd  ; 
Threaten'd, — defiance  was  re  turn'd. 
Then  rang  both  regions  with  alarms  ; 
Blood-kindling  trumpets  blew  to  arms; 
The  maddening  drum  and  deafening  fife 
Marshall'd  the  elements  of  strife  : 
Sternly  the  mountaineers  maintain 
Their  rights  against  the  insurgent  plain ; 
The  plain's  indignant  myriads  rose 
To  wrest  the  mountain  from  their  foes, 
Resolved  its  blessings  to  enjoy 
By  dint  of  valor — or  destroy. 

The  legions  met  in  war-array ; 
The  mountaineers  brook'd  no  delay, 
Aside  their  missile  weapons  threw. 
From  holds  impregnable  withdrew, 


And,  rashly  brave,  with  sword  and  shield, 

Rush'd  headlong  to  the  open  field. 

I'heir  foes  the  auspicious  omen  took. 

And  raised  a  battle-shout,  that  shook 

The  champaign ; — staunch  and  keen  for  blood 

Front  threatening  front,  the  columns  stood. 

But,  while  like  thunder-clouds  they  frown. 

In  tropic  haste  the  sun  w  ent  down ; 

Night  o'er  both  armies  stretch'd  her  tent. 

The  star-bespangled  firmament. 
Whose  placid  host,  revolving  slow. 
Smile  on  the  impatient  hordes  below. 
That  chafe  and  fret  the  hours  away. 
Curse  the  dull  gloom,  and  long  for  day. 
Though  destined  by  their  own  decree 
No  other  day  nor  night  to  see. 
— That  night  is  past,  that  day  begun, 
Swift  as  he  sunk  ascends  the  sun. 
And  from  the  red  horizon  springs 
Upward,  as  borne  on  eagle-wings ; 
Aslant  each  army's  lengthen'd  lines, 
O'er  shields  and  helms  he  proudly  shines. 
While  spears,  that  catch  his  lightnings  keen 
Flash  them  athwart  the  space  between. 
Before  the  battle-shock,  w  hen  breath  ' 

And  pulse  are  still, — awaiting  death  : 
In  that  cold  pause,  which  seems  to  be 
The  prelude  to  eternity. 
When  fear,  ere  yet  a  blow  is  dealt, 
Betray'd  by  none,  by  all  is  fell ; 
While,  moved  beneath  their  feet,  the  tomb 
Widens  her  lap  to  make  them  room  ; 
— Till,  in  the  onset  of  the  fray. 
Fear,  feeling,  thought,  are  cast  away, 
And  foaming,  raging,  mingling  foes. 
Like  billows  dash'd  in  conflict,  close, 
Charge,  strike,  repel,  wound,  struggle,  fly. 
Gloriously  win,  unconquer'd  die. 
Here,  in  dread  silence,  while  they  stand, 
Each  with  a  death-stroke  in  his  hand, 
His  eye  fix'd  forward,  and  his  ear 
Tingling  the  signal-blast  to  hear. 
The  trumpet  sounds ; — one  note, — no  more ; 
The  field,  the  fight,  the  war  is  o'er; 
An  earthquake  rent  the  void  between ; 
A  moment  show'd.  and  shut  the  scene ; 
Men,  chariots,  steeds,  of  either  host. 
The  flower,  the  pride,  the  strength  were  lost 
A  solitude  remains; — the  dead 
Are  buried  there — the  living  fled. 

Nor  yet  the  reign  of  Summer  closed  :  ' 
— At  night  in  their  own  homes  reposed 
The  fugitives,  on  either  side. 
Who  'scaped  the  death  their  comrades  died , 
When,  lo !  with  many  a  giddy  shock. 
The  mountain-cliffs  began  to  rock. 
And  deep  below  the  hollow  ground 
Ran  a  strange  mystery  of  sound. 
As  if,  in  chains  and  torments  there. 
Spirits  were  venting  their  despair. 
That  sound,  those  shocks,  the  sleepers  woke, 
In  trembling  consternation,  broke 
Forth  from  their  dwellings,  young  and  old; 
' — Nothing  abroad  their  eyes  behold 

342 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


159 


But  darkness  so  intenyply  wrought, 

'T  was  blindness  in  themselves  they  thought. 

Anon,  aloof,  with  sudden  rays, 

Issued  so  fierce,  so  broad  a  blaze, 

That  darkness  started  into  light, 

And  every  eye,  re^tored  to  sight, 

Gazed  on  the  glittering  crest  of  snows, 

Whence  the  bright  conflagration  rose. 

Whose  flames  condensed  at  once  aspire, 

— A  pillar  of  celestial  fire. 

Alone  amidst  infernal  shade. 

In  glorious  majesty  display'd  : 

Beneath,  from  rifted  caverns,  broke 

Volumes  of  suifocating  smoke, 

That  roU'd  in  surges,  like  a  flood. 

By  the  red  radiance  tnrn'd  to  blood 

Alorn  look'd  aghast  upon  the  scene. 

Nor  could  a  sunbeam  pierce  between 

The  panoply  of  vapors,  spread 

Above,  around  the  mountain's  head. 

In  distant  fields,  with  drought  consumed, 
Joy  swell'd  all  hearts,  all  eyes  illumed, 
When  from  that  peak,  through  lowering  skies, 
Thick  curling  clouds  were  seen  to  rise. 
And  hang  o'er  all  the  darken'd  plain, 
The  presage  of  descending  rain. 
The  exulting  cattle  bound  along. 
The  tuneless  birds  attempt  a  song, 
The  swain,  amidst  his  sterile  lands, 
With  outstretch'd  arms  of  rapture  stands. 
But,  fraught  with  plague  and  curses,  came 
The  insidious  progeny  of  flame  : 
Ah  !  then, — for  fertilizing  showers. 
The  pledge  of  herbage,  fruits,  and  flowers, — 
Words  cannot  paint,  how  every  eye 
',Blood-shot  and  dim  with  agony), 
Was  glazed,  as  by  a  palsying  spell. 
When  light  sulphureous  ashes  fell. 
Dazzling,  and  eddying  to  and  fro, 
Like  wildering  sleet  or  feattiery  snow: 
Strewn  with  grey  pumice  Nature  lies. 
At  every  motion  quick  to  rise. 
Tainting  with  Uvid  fumes  the  air  ; 
—Then  hope  lies  down  in  prone  despair. 
And  man  and  beast,  with  misery  dumb. 
Sullenly  brood  on  woes  to  come. 

The  mountain  now%  like  living  earth. 
Pregnant  with  some  stupendous  birth. 
Heaved,  in  the  anguish  of  its  throes. 
Sheer  from  its  crest  the  incumbent  snows ; 
And  where  of  old  they  chill'd  the  sky, 
Beneath  the  sun's  meridian  eye. 
Or,  purpling  in  the  golden  west, 
I         Appear'd  his  evening  throne  of  rest. 

There,  black  and  bottomless  and  wide, 
I         A  cauldron  rent  from  side  to  side, 
i         Simmer'd  and  hiss'd  with  huge  turmoil  ; 
!         Earth's  disembowell'd  minerals  boil, 
I         And  thence  in  molten  torrents  rush  : 
I         — Water  and  fire,  like  sisters,  gush 
'         From  the  same  source  ;  the  doutfle  stream 

Meets,  battles,  and  explodes  in  steam ; 
;         Then  fire  prevails ;  and  broad  and  deep 
!         Red  lava  roars  from  steep  to  steep ; 


While  rocks  unseated,  woods  upriven. 
Are  headlong  down  the  current  driven  ; 
Columnar  flames  are  rapt  aloof. 
In  whirlwind  forms,  to  heaven's  high  roof. 
And  there,  amidst  transcendent  gloom, 
Image  the  wrath  beyond  the  tomb. 

The  mountaineers,  in  wild  affright. 
Too  late  for  safety,  urge  their  flight ; 
Women,  made  childless  in  the  fray, 
Women,  made  mothers  yesterday. 
The  sick,  the  aged,  and  the  blind  ; 
— None  but  the  dead  are  left  behind. 
Painful  their  journey,  toilsome,  slow. 
Beneath  their  feet  quick  embers  glow. 
And  hurtle  round  in  dreadful  hail  ; 
Their  hmbs,  their  hearts,  their  senses  fail, 
While  many  a  victim,  by  the  way 
Buried  alive  in  ashes  lay. 
Or  perish'd  by  the  lightning's  stroke, 
Before  the  slower  thunder  broke. 
A  few  the  open  field  explore : 
The  throng  seek  refuge  on  the  shore, 
Between  two  burning  rivers  hemm'd. 
Whose  rage  nor  mounds  nor  hollow,  stemm  d , 
Driven  like  a  herd  of  deer,  they  reach 
The  lonely,  dark,  and  silent  beach, 
Where,  calm  as  innocence  in  sleep. 
Expanded  lies  the  unconscious  deep. 
Awhil(*  the  fugitives  respire. 
And  watch  those  cataracts  of  fire, 
(That  bar  escape  on  either  hand), 
Rush  on  the  ocean  from  the  strand  ; 
Back  from  the  onset  rolls  the  tide. 
But  instant  clouds  the  conflict  hide ; 
The  lavas  plunge  to  gulfs  unknown, 
And,  as  they  plunge,  relapse  to  stone. 

Meanwhile  the  mad  volcano  grew 
Tenfold  more  terrible  to  \-iew ; 
And  thunders,  such  as  shall  be  hurl'd 
At  the  death-sentence  of  the  world  ; 
And  lightnings,  such  as  shall  consume 
Creation,  and  creation's  tomb, 
Nor  leave,  amidst  the  eternal  void, 
One  trembling  atom  undestroy'd  ; 
Such  thunders  crash'd,  such  lightnings  glared 
— Another  fate  those  outcasts  shared, 
When,  with  one  desolating  sweep, 
An  earthquake  scem'd  to  ingulf  the  deep, 
Then  threw  it  back,  and  from  its  bed 
Hung  a  whole  ocean  overhead  ; 
The  victims  shriek'd  beneath  the  wave, 
And  in  a  moment  found  one  grave  ; 
Down  to  the  abyss  the  flood  return'd : 
Alone,  unseen,  the  mountain  bum'd. 


INCOGNITA. 

WRITTEN  AT  LEAMINGTON,  IN  1817,  ON  VIEWIN'J  THE 
PICTURE  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  LADY. 


She  was  a  phantom  of  dehght.—  TVordsworth 


[.MAGE  of  One,  w  ho  lived  of  yore ! 
Hail  to  that  lovely  mien, 

343 


160 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Once  quick  and  conscious ; — now  no  more 

On  land  or  ocean  seen  ! 
Were  all  earth's  breathing  forms  to  pass 
Before  me  in  Agrippa's  glass,' 
Many  as  fair  as  Thou  might  be, 
But  oh !  not  one, — not  one  like  Thee. 

Thou  art  no  Child  of  Fancy ; — Thou 

The  very  look  dost  wear 
That  gave  enchantment  to  a  brow 

Wreathed  with  luxuriant  hair  ; 
Lips  of  the  morn  embathed  in  dew, 
And  eyes  of  evening's  starry  blue  ; 
Of  all  who  e'er  enjoy'd  the  sun. 
Thou  art  the  image  of  but  One. 

A.nd  who  was  she,  in  virgin  prime. 

And  May  of  womanhood, 
Whose  roses  here,  unpluck'd  by  Time, 

In  shadowy  tints  have  stood  ; 
While  many  a  winter's  withering  blast 
Hath  o'er  the  dark  cold  chamber  pass'd, 
In  which  her  once  resplendent  form 
Slumber'd  to  dust  beneath  the  storm  ? 

Of  gentle  blood  ; — upon  her  birth 

Consenting  planets  smiled. 
And  she  had  seen  those  days  of  mirth 

That  frolic  round  the  child : 
To  bridal  bloom  her  strength  had  sprung, 
Behold  her  beautiful  and  young ! 
Lives  there  a  record,  which  hath  told 
That  she  was  wedded,  widovv'd,  old  ? 

How  long  her  date,  't  were  vain  to  guess : 

The  pencil's  cunning  art 
Can  but  a  single  glance  express. 

One  motion  of  the  heart ; 
A  smile,  a  blush, — a  transient  grace 
Of  air,  and  attitude,  and  face ; 
One  passion's  changing  color  mix ; 
One  moment's  flight  for  ages  fix. 

Her  joys  and  griefs,  alike  in  vain, 

Would  fancy  here  recall ; 
Her  throbs  of  ecstacy  or  pain 

Lull'd  in  oblivion  all ; 
With  her,  methinks,  life's  little  hour 
Pass'd  like  the  fragrance  of  a  flower, 
That  leaves  upon  the  vernal  wind 
Sweetness  we  ne'er  again  may  find. 

Where  dwelt  she  ? — Ask  yon  aged  tree, 
Whose  boughs  embower  the  lawn, 

Whether  the  birds'  wild  minstrelsy 
Awoke  her  here  at  dawn  ; 

Whether  beneath  its  youthful  shade, 

At  noon,  in  infancy  she  play'd  : 

—If  from  the  oak  no  answer  come, 

Of  her  all  oracles  are  dumb. 

The  Dead  are  like  the  stars  by  day  ; 

Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye. 
But  not  extinct,  they  hold  their  way 

In  glory  through  the  sky : 


1  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa,  of  Nette<=heim,  counsellor  to 
Charles  V.  Emperor  of  Germany, — the  author  of  Occult  Phi- 
losophy, and  other  profound  works, — is  said  to  h.ive  shown  to 
the  Earl  of  Surrey  the  image  of  his  mistress  Geraldine,  in  a 
aiagical  mirror. 


Spirits,  from  bondage  thus  set  free, 
Vanish  amidst  immensity, 
Where  human  thought,  like  human  sight, 
Fails  to  pursue  their  trackless  flight. 

Somewhere  within  created  space, 

Could  I  explore  that  round, 
In  bliss,  or  woe,  there  is  a  place 

Where  she  might  still  be  found  ; 
And  oh  !  unless  those  eyes  deceive, 
I  may,  I  must,  I  will  believe 
That  she,  whose  charms  so  meekly  glow. 
Is  what  she  only  seem'd  below : — 

An  angel  in  that  glorious  realm 

Where  God  himself  is  King : 
— But  awe  and  fear,  that  overwhelm 

Presumption,  check  my  wing  ; 
Nor  dare  imagination  look 
Upon  the  symbols  of  that  book, 
Wherein  eternity  enrolls 
The  judgments  on  departed  souls. 

Of  Her  of  whom  these  pictured  lines 

A  faint  resemblance  form  ; 
— Fair  as  the  second  rainbow  shines 

Aloof  amid  the  storm  ; 
Of  Her,  this  "  shadow  of  a  shade," 
Like  its  original  must  fade, 
And  She,  forgotten  when  unseen. 
Shall  be  as  if  she  ne'er  had  been. 

Ah !  then,  perchance,  this  dreaming  strain. 

Of  all  that  e'er  I  sung, 
A  lorn  memorial  may  remain, 

When  silent  lies  my  tongue  ; 
When  shot  the  meteor  of  my  fame, 
Lost  the  vain  echo  of  ray  name, 
This  leaf,  this  fallen  leat^,  may  be 
The  only  trace  of  her  and  me. 

With  One  who  lived  of  old,  my  song 

In  lowly  cadence  rose  ; 
To  One  who  is  unborn,  belong 

The  accents  of  its  close  : 
Ages  to  come,  with  courteous  ear, 
Some  youth  my  warning  voice  may  hear ; 
And  voices  from  the  dead  should  be 
The  warnings  of  eternity. 

When  these  weak  lines  thy  presence  greet. 

Reader!  if  I  am  blest. 
Again,  as  spirits,  may  we  meet 

In  glory  and  in  rest : 
If  not, — and  /  have  lost  my  way. 
Here  part  we  ; — go  not  Thou  astray : 
No  tomb,  no  verse  my  story  tell ! 
Once,  and  for  ever.  Fare  Thee  well. 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD, 

SEEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  EXCURSION,  JUNE  30,  1818. 

The  summer  sun  was  in  the  west. 
Yet  far  above  his  evening  rest  ; 
A  thousand  clouds  in  air  display'd 
Their  floating  isles  of  light  and  shade, — 

344 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


161 


The  sky,  like  ocean's  channels,  seen 
In  long  meandering  streaks  between. 

Cultured  and  waste,  the  landscape  lay ; 
Woods,  mountains,  valleys  stretch'd  away, 
And  throng'd  the  immense  horizon  round, 
With  heaven's  eternal  girdle  bound  : 
From  inland  towns,  eclipsed  with  smoke, 
Steeples  in  lonely  grandeur  broke  ; 
Hamlets,  and  cottages,  and  streams 
By  glimpses  caught  the  casual  gleams. 
Or  blazed  in  lustre  broad  and  strong. 
Beyond  the  picturing  powers  of  song : 
O'er  all  the  eye  enchanted  ranged, 
While  colors,  forms,  proportions  changed. 
Or  sank  in  distance  undefined, 
Still  as  our  devious  course  incUned; 
— And  oft  we  paused,  and  look'd  behind. 

One  little  cloud,  and  only  one, 
Seem'd  the  pure  offspring  of  the  sun, 
Flung  from  his  orb  to  show  us  here 
What  clouds  adorn  his  hemisphere ; 
Unmoved,  unchanging,  in  the  gale 
That  bore  the  rest  o'er  hill  and  dale. 
Whose  shadowy  shapes,  with  lights  arotmd, 
Like  living  motions,  swept  the  ground. 
This  little  cloud,  and  this  alone, 
Long  in  the  highest  ether  shone ; 
Gay  as  a  warrior's  banner  spread 
Its  sunward  margin  ruby-red. 
Green,  purple,  gold,  and  every  hue 
That  glitters  in  the  morning  dew. 
Or  glows  along  the  rainbow's  form, 
— The  apparition  of  the  storm. 
Deep  in  its  bosom,  diamond-bright. 
Behind  a  fleece  of  pearly  white. 
It  seem'd  a  secret  glory  dwelt, 
Whose  presence,  while  unseen,  was  felt: 
Like  Beauty's  eye,  in  slumber  hid 
Beneath  a  half-transparent  lid. 
From  whence  a  sound,  a  touch,  a  breath, 
Might  startle  it, — as  life  from  death. 

Looks,  words,  emotions  of  surprise 
Welcomed  the  stranger  to  our  eyes : 
Was  it  the  phoenix,  that  from  earth 
In  flames  of  incense  sprang  to  birth  ? 
Had  ocean  from  his  lap  let  fly 
His  loveliest  halcyon  through  the  sky  ? 
No  : — while  we  gazed,  the  pageant  grew 
A  nobler  object  to  our  view ; 
We  deem'd,  if  heaven  with  earth  would  hold 
Communion,  as  in  days  of  old, 
Such,  on  his  journey  down  the  sphere, 
Benignant  Raphael  might  appear, 
In  splendid  mystery  conceal'd. 
Yet  by  his  rich  disguise  reveal'd : 
— ^That  buoyant  vapor,  in  mid-air, 
An  angel  in  its  folds  might  bear. 
Who,  through  the  curtain  of  his  shrine, 
Be  tray 'd  his  lineaments  divine. 
The  wild,  the  warm  illusion  stole. 
Like  inspiration,  o'er  the  soul. 
Till  thought  was  rapture,  language  hung 
Silent  but  trembling  on  the  tongue  ; 
44 


And  fancy  almost  hoped  to  hail 
The  seraph  rushing  through  his  veil. 
Or  hear  an  awful  voice  proclaim 
The  embassy  on  which  he  came. 

But  ah !  no  minister  of  grace 
Show'd  from  the  firmament  his  face, 
Nor,  borne  aloof  on  balanced  wings, 
Reveal'd  unutterable  things. 
The  sun  went  down : — the  vision  pass'd  ; 
The  cloud  was  but  a  cloud  at  last ; 
Yet  when  its  brilhancy  decay'd, 
The  eye  still  linger'd  on  the  shade, 
And  watching,  till  no  longer  seen. 
Loved  it  for  what  it  once  had  been. 

That  cloud  was  beautiful, — was  one 
Among  a  thousand  round  the  sun : 
The  thousand  shared  the  common  lot ; 
They  came, — they  went, — they  were  forgot; 
This  fairy  form  alone  impress'd 
Its  perfect  image  in  my  breast. 
And  shines  as  richly  blazon'd  there 
As  in  its  element  of  air. 

The  day  on  which  that  cloud  appear'd, 
Exhilarating  scenes  endear'd : 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills,  the  floods; 
The  breeze,  the  twilight  of  the  woods ; 
Nature  in  every  change  of  green. 
Heaven  in  unnumber'd  aspects  seen: 
Health,  spirits,  exercise,  release 
From  noise  and  smoke ;  twelve  hours  of  peace ; 
No  fears  to  haunt,  no  cares  to  vex  ; 
Friends,  young  and  old,  of  either  sex ; 
Converse  familiar,  sportive,  kind. 
Where  heart  meets  heart,  mind  quickens  mind, 
And  words  and  thoughts  are  all  at  play. 
Like  children  on  a  hohday ; 
— Till  themes  celestial  rapt  the  soul 
In  adoration  o'er  the  pole, 
Where  stars  are  darkness  in  His  sight. 
Who  reigns  invisible  in  light, 
High  above  all  created  things. 
The  Lord  of  Lords,  the  King  of  Kings ; 
Faith,  which  could  thus  on  wing  sublime 
Outsoar  the  bounded  flight  of  time ; 
Hope  full  of  immortality, 
And  God  in  all  the  eye  could  see ; 
— These,  these  endear'd  that  day  to  me. 
And  made  it,  in  a  thousand  ways, 
A  day  among  a  thousand  days, 
That  share  with  clouds  the  common  lot ; 
They  come, — they  go, — they  are  forgot : 
This,  like  that  plaything  of  the  sun, 
— The  little,  lonely,  lovely  one, 
This  lives  within  me  ; — this  shafl  be 
A  part  of  my  eternity. 

Amidst  the  cares,  the  toils,  the  strife, 
The  weariness  and  waste  of  life. 
That  day  shall  memory  oft  restore. 
And  in  a  moment  live  it  o'er, 
When,  with  a  lightning-flash  of  thought. 
Morn,  naon,  and  eve  at  once  are  brought 
(As  through  the  vision  of  a  trance), 
All  in  the  compass  of  a  glance. 

345 


162 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh  I  should  I  reach  a  world  above, 
And  sometimes  think  of  those  I  love, 
Of  things  on  earth  too  dearly  prized, 
(Nor  yet  by  saints  in  heaven  despised). 
Though  Spirits  made  perfect  may  lament 
Life's  holier  hours  as  half  misspent, 
Methinks  I  could  not  turn  away 
The  fond  remembrance  of  that  day, 
The  bright  idea  of  that  cloud, 
(Survivor  of  a  countless  crowd) 
Without  a  pause,  perhaps  a  sigh, — 
To  think  such  loveliness  should  die, 
And  clouds  and  days  of  storm  and  gloom 
Scowl  on  Man's  passage  to  the  tomb. 
— Not  so : — I  feel  I  have  a  heart 
Blessings  to  share,  improve,  impart, 
In  blithe,  severe,  or  pensive  mood, 
At  home,  abroad,  in  solitude. 
Whatever  clouds  are  on  the  wing, 
Whatever  day  the  seasons  bring. 

That  is  true  happiness  below. 
Which  conscience  cannot  turn  to  woe ; 
And  though  such  happiness  depends 
Neither  on  clouds,  nor  days,  nor  friends. 
When  friends,  and  days,  and  clouds  unite. 
And  kindred  chords  are  tuned  aright. 
The  harmonies  of  heaven  and  earth. 
Through  eye,  ear,  intellect,  give  birth 
To  joys  too  exquisite  to  last, 
—And  yet  more  exquisite  when  past ! 
When  the  soul  summons  by  a  spell 
The  ghosts  of  pleasure  round  her  cell. 
In  saintlier  forms  than  erst  they  wore. 
And  smiles  benigner  than  before  ; 
Elach  loved,  lamented  scene  renews 
With  warmer  touches,  tenderer  hues  ; 
Recalls  kind  words  for  ever  flown. 
But  echoing  in  a  soften'd  tone ; 
Wakes,  with  new  pulses  in  the  breast. 
Feelings  forgotten  or  at  rest ; 
— The  thought  how  fugitive  and  fair. 
How  dear  and  precious  such  things  were ! 
That  thought,  with  gladness  more  refined. 
Deep  and  transporting  thrills  the  mind, 
Than  all  those  pleasures  of  an  hour. 
When  most  the  soul  confess'd  their  power. 

Bliss  in  possession  will  not  last ; 
Remember'd  joys  are  never  past ; 
At  once  the  fountain,  stream,  and  sea, 
They  were, — they  are, — they  yet  shall  be. 


ABD ALLAH  AND  SABAT.' 


[Orginally  published  with  Ahdallah,  or  the  Christian  Martyr, 
by  Thomas  Foster  Barham,  Esq. 


From  West-Arabia  to  Bochara  came 
A  noble  youth  ;  Abdallah  was  his  name  ; 


1  See  Buchanan's  Christian  Researches  in  India,  for  the 
martyrdom  of  Abdallah,  and  the  conversion  and  labors  of 
Sahat. 

The  Christian  Observer,  February  1818,  contains  the  account 
wf  Sabat's  dreadful  fate. 


Who  journey'd  through  the  various  east  to  find 

New  forms  of  man,  in  feature,  habit,  mind  ; 

Where  Tartar  hordes  through  nature's  ])astures  i"**^, 

A  race  of  Centaurs, — horse  and  rider  one  ; 

Where  the  soft  Persian  maid  the  breath  inhales 

Of  love-sick  roses,  woo'd  by  nightingales ; 

Where  India's  grim  array  of  Idols  seem 

The  rabble-phantoms  of  a  maniac's  dream  : 

— Himself  the  flowery  path  of  trespass  trod. 

Which  the  false  prophet  deck'd  to  lure  from  God 

But  He,  who  changed,  into  the  faith  of  Paul, 

The  slaughter-breathing  enmity  of  Saul, 

Vouchsafed  to  meet  Abdallah  by  the  w  ay : 

No  miracle  of  light  eclipsed  the  day ; 

No  vision  from  the  eternal  world,  nor  sound 

Of  awe  and  wonder  smote  him  to  the  ground  ; 

All  mild  and  calm,  with  power  till  then  unknown 

The  gospel-glory  through  his  darkness  shone  ; 

A  still  small  whisper,  only  heard  within. 

Convinced  the  trembling  penitent  of  sin ; 

And  Jesus,  whom  the  Infidel  abhorr'd. 

The  Convert  now  invoked,  and  call'd  him  Lord. 

Escaping  from  the  lewd  Impostor's  snare. 

As  flits  a  bird  released  through  boundless  air. 

And  soaring  up  the  pure  blue  ether  sings : 

— So  rose  his  Spirit  on  exulting  wings. 

But  love,  joy,  peace,  the  Christian's  bliss  below. 

Are  deeply  mingled  in  a  cup  of  woe. 

Which  none  can  pass : — he,  counting  all  things  los. 

For  his  Redeemer,  gladly  bore  the  cross ; 

Soon  call'd,  with  life,  to  lay  that  burthen  down. 

In  the  first  fight  he  won  the  Martyr's  crown. 

Abdallah's  friend  was  Sabat ; — one  of  those 
Whom  love  estranged  transforms  to  bitterest  foes  ; 
From  persecution  to  that  friend  he  fled. 
But  Sabat  pour'd  reproaches  on  his  head, 
Spurn'd  like  a  leprous  plague  the  prostrate  youth 
And  hated  him  as  falsehood  hates  the  truth ; 
Yet  first  with  sophistry  and  menace  tried 
To  turn  hira  from  "  the  faithful  word  "  aside ; 
All  failing,  old  esteem  to  rancor  turn'd. 
With  Mahomet's  own  reckless  rage  he  bum'd. 
A  thousand  hideous  thoughts,  like  fiends,  possess'd 
The  Pandemonium  of  the  Bigot's  breast, 
Wliose  fires,  enkindled  from  the  infernal  lake, 
Abdallah's  veins,  unsluiced,  alone  could  slake. 

The  victim,  dragg'd  to  slaughter  by  his  friend, 
Witness'd  a  good  confession  to  the  end. 
Bochara  pour'd  her  people  forth,  to  gaze 
Upon  the  direst  scene  the  world  displays. 
The  blood  of  innocence  by  treason  spilt. 
The  reeking  triumph  of  deep-branded  guilt : 
— Bochara  pour'd  her  people  forth,  to  eye 
The  loveliest  spectacle  beneath  the  sky. 
The  look  with  which  a  Martyr  yields  his  breath, 
— The  resurrection  of  the  soul  in  death. 
"  Renounce  the  Nazarene ! "  the  headsman  cries, 
And  flash'd  the  unstain'd  falchion  in  his  eyes : 
"No! — be  his  name  by  heaven  and  earth  adored  I' 
He  said,  and  gave  his  right-hand  to  the  sword : 
"Renounce  Him,  who  forsakes  thee  thus  bereft;" 
He  wept,  but  spake  not,  and  resign'd  his  left. 
"  Renounce  Him  now,  who  will  not,  cannot  save ; 
He  kneel'd,  like  Stephen,  look'd  beyond  the  grave 

34G 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


163 


And  while  the  dawn  of  heaven  around  him  broke, 
Bow'd  his  meek  head  to  the  dissevering  stroke. 
Out-cast  on  earth  a  mangled  body  lay ; 
A  Spirit  enter'd  Paradise  that  day. 

But  where  is  Sabat  ? — Conscience-struck  he  stands, 
With  eye  of  agony,  and  fast-lock'd  hands : 
Abdallah,  in  the  moment  to  depart, 
Had  turn'd,  and  look'd  the  traitor  through  the  heart : 
It  smote  him  like  a  judgment  from  above. 
That  gentle  look  of  wrong'd,  forgiving  love! 
Then  hatred  vanish'd  ;  suddenly  represt 
Were  the  strange  flames  of  passion  in  his  breast ; 
Nought  but  the  smouldering  ashes  of  despair, 
Blackness  of  darkness,  death  of  death,  were  there. 
Ere  long  wild  whirlwinds  of  remorse  arise ; 
He  flies — from  all  except  himself  he  flies. 
And  a  low  voice  for  ever  thrilling  near, 
The  voice  of  blood  which  none  but  he  can  hear. 

He  fled  from  guilt,  but  guilt  and  he  were  one, 
A  Spirit  seeking  rest  and  finding  none  ; 
Visions  of  horror  haunted  him  by  night. 
Yet  darkness  was  less  terrible  than  light  ; 
From  dreams  of  woe  when  startled  nature  broke. 
To  woes  that  were  not  dreams  the  wretch  awoke. 
Forlorn  he  ranged  through  India ;  till  the  Power, 
That  met  Abdallah  in  a  happier  hour, 
Arrested  Sabat;  through  his  soul  he  felt 
The  word  of  truth ;  his  heart  began  to  melt, 
And  yielded  slowly,  as  dold  Winter  yields 
When  the  warm  Spring  comes  flashing  o'er  the  fields. 
Then  first  a  tear  of  gladness  swell'd  his  eye. 
Then  first  his  bosom  heaved  a  healthful  sigh ; 
That  bosom  parch'd  as  Afric's  desert-land, 
That  eye  a  flint-stone  in  the  burning  sand. 
— Peace,  pardon,  hope,  eternal  joy,  reveal'd. 
Humbled  his  heart ;  before  the  cross  he  kneel'd, 
Look'd  up  to  Him  whom  once  he  pierced,  and  bore 
The  name  of  Christ  which  he  blasphemed  before. 
— Was  Sabat  then  subdued  by  love  or  fear  ? 
And  who  shall  vouch  that  he  was  not  sincere  ? 

Now  with  a  Convert's  zeal  his  ardent  mind 
Glovv'd  for  the  common  weal  of  all  mankind ; 
Yet  with  intenser  faith  the  Arabian  pray'd, 
When  homeward  thought  through  childhood's  Eden 

stray'd, 
— There,  in  the  lap  of  Yemen's  happiest  vale, 
The  shepherds'  tents  are  wavmg  to  the  gale ; 
The  Patriarch  of  their  tribe,  his  sire,  he  sees 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  ambrosial  trees ; 
His  Sisters,  from  the  fountain  in  the  rock. 
Pour  the  cool  sparkUng  w^ater  to  their  flock ; 
His  brethren,  rapt  on  steeds  and  camels,  roam 
O'er  wild  and  mountain,  all  the  land  their  home : 
— ^Thither  he  long'd  to  send  that  book,  unseal'd. 
Whose  w^ords  are  life,  whose  leaves  his  wounds  had 

heal'd ; 
That  Ishmael,  livuig  by  his  sword  and  bow. 
Might  thus  again  the  God  of  Abraham  know  ; 
And  Meccan  Pilgrims  to  Cahba's  shrine, 
Like  locusts  marching  in  perpetual  line. 
Might  quit  the  broad,  to  choose  the  narrow  path, 
That  leads  to  glory,  and  reclaims  from  wrath. 


Fired  with  the  hope  to  bless  his  native  soil, 
Years  roU'd  unfelt.  in  consecrated  toil, 
To  mould  the  truths  which  holy  writers  teach 
In  the  loved  accents  of  his  mother's  speech ; 
While,  like  the  sun,  that  always  to  the  west 
Leads  the  bright  day,  his  fervent  spirit  press'd. 
Thither  a  purer  hght  from  heaven  to  dart, 
— The  only  light  that  reaches  to  the  heart. 
Whose  deserts  blossom  where  its  beams  are  shed. 
The  blind  behold  them,  and  they  raise  the  dead. 
Nor  by  Arabia  were  his  labors  bound. 
To  Persian  lips  he  taught  "  the  joyful  soimd." 
Would  he  had  held  unchanged  that  high  career ! 
— But  Sabat  fell  like  lightning  from  his  sphere  : 
Once  with  the  morning  stars  God's  works  he  sung  , 
Anon  a  serpent,  with  envenom'd  tongue. 
Like  that  apostate  fiend  who  tempted  Eve, 
Gifted  with  speech, — he  spake  but  to  deceive. 

Let  pity  o'er  his  errors  cast  a  veil ! 
Haste  to  the  sequel  of  his  tragic  tale. 
Sabat  became  a  vagabond  on  earth ;  ^ 

— He  chose  the  Sinner's  way,  the  Scomer's  mirth ; 
Now  feign'd  contrition  ^^■ith  obdurate  tears. 
Then  wore  a  bravery  that  betray'd  his  fears  ; 
With  oaths  and  curses  now  his  Lord  denied. 
And  strangled  guilty  shame  with  desperate  pride  ; 
While,  inly  rack'd,  he  proved  what  culprits  feel. 
When  conscience  breaks  remembrance  on  the  wheel 
At  length,  an  outlaw  through  the  orient  isles, 
Snared  in  the  subtlety  of  his  own  wiles, 
He  perish'd  in  an  unexpected  hour, 
To  glut  the  vengeance  of  barbarian  power ; 
With  sack-cloth  shrouded,  to  a  mill-stone  bound. 
And  in  the  abysses  of  the  ocean  drown'd. 
— Oh !  what  a  plunge  into  the  dark  was  there ! 
How  ended  life  ? — In  blasphemy  or  prayer  ? 
The  w  inds  are  fled  that  heard  his  parting  cry. 
The  waves  that  stifled  it  make  no  reply 

When,  at  the  resurrection  of  the  Just, 
Earth  shall  yield  back  Abdallah  from  the  dust, 
The  sea,  like  rising  clouds,  give  up  its  dead. 
Then  from  the  deep  shall  Sabat  lift  his  head. 
With  waking  millions  round  the  judgment-seat. 
Once,  and  but  once  again,  those  twain  shall  meet. 
To  part  for  ever — or  to  part  no  more : 
— But  who  the  eternal  secret  shall  explore. 
When  Justice  seals  the  gates  of  heaven  and  hell  ? 
The  rest — that  day,  that  day  alone,  will  tell 


TO  BRITAIN. 

The  following  Address  was  the  concluding  Part  of  a  Poem,  en- 
titled "  Thoughts  on  Wheels,''  annexed  to  a  Work,  written 
by  a  friend  of  the  Author,  to  expose  the  evils  of  the  State 
Lottery^  __^ 

I  LOVE  Thee,  O  my  native  Isle  ! 
Dear  as  my  mother's  earliest  smile  ; 
Sweet  as  my  father's  voice  to  me 
Is  all  I  hear,  and  all  I  see. 
When,  glancing  o'er  thy  beauteous  lana 
In  view  thy  Public  Virtues  stand, 


1  The  State  Lottery,  A  Dream :  by  Samuel  Roberts.- 
Thoughts  on  Wheels,  a  Poem,  in  Five  Parts,  by  J.  M. 

347 


-Also 


164 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  guardian  angels  of  thy  coast, 
Who  watch  the  dear  domestic  Host, 
The  Heart's  Affections,  pleased  to  roam 
Around  the  quiet  heaven  at  home. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  mark  ihy  soil 
Flourish  beneath  the  peasant's  toil, 
And  from  its  lap  of  verdure  throw 
Treasures  which  neither  Indies  know. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  hear  around 
Thy  looms,  and  wheels,  and  anvils  sound, 
Thine  engines  heaving  all  their  force, 
Thy  waters  laboring  on  their  course, 
And  arts,  and  industry,  and  wealth 
Exulting  in  the  joys  of  health. 

I  love  Thee, — -when  I  trace  thy  tale 
To  the  dim  point  where  records  fail  \ 
Thy  deeds  of  old  renown  inspire 
My  bosom  with  our  fathers'  fire : 
A  proud  inheritance  I  claim 
In  all  their  sufferings,  all  their  fame  ; 
Nor  less  delighted  when  I  stray 
Down  history's  lengthening,  widening  way, 
And  hail  Thee  in  thy  present  hour, 
From  the  meridian  arch  of  power. 
Shedding  the  lustre  of  thy  reign, 
Like  sunshine,  over  land  and  main. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  read  the  laj^s 
Of  British  bards  in  elder  days, 
Till,  rapt  on  visionary  wings. 
High  o'er  thy  cliffs  my  spirit  sings ; 
For  I,  among  thy  living  choir, 
I,  too,  can  touch  the  sacred  lyre. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  contemplate 
The  full-orb'd  grandeur  of  thy  state ; 
Thy  laws  and  liberties,  that  rise, 
Man's  noblest  works  beneath  the  skies, 
To  which  the  pyramids  were  tame. 
And  Grecian  temples  bow  their  fame  : 
These,  thine  immortal  sages  wrought 
Out  of  the  deepest  mines  of  thought ; 
These,  on  the  scaffold,  in  the  field, 
Thy  warriors  won,  thy  patriots  seal'd ; 
These,  at  the  parricidal  pyre, 
Thy  martyrs,  sanctified  in  fire, 
And,  with  the  generous  blood  they  spilt, 
Wash'd  from  thy  soil  their  murderers'  guilt, 
Cancell'd  the  curse  which  vengeance  sped, 
And  left  a  blessing  in  its  stead. 
— Can  words,  can  numbers  count  the  price 
Paid  for  this  little  paradise  ? 
Never,  oh !  never  be  it  lost ; 
The  land  is  worth  the  price  it  cost, 

I  love  Thee, — when  thy  sabbath  dawns 
O'er  woods  and  mountains,  dales  and  lawns, 
And  streams,  that  sparkle  while  they  run, 
As  if  their  fountain  were  the  sun : 
When,  hand  in  hand,  thy  tribes  repair, 
Lach  to  their  chosen  house  of  prayer, 
And  all  in  peace  and  freedom  call 
Op  Him,  who  is  the  Lord  ©f  all. 


I  love  Thee, — when  my  soul  can  feel 
The  seraph-ardors  of  thy  zeal  : 
Thy  charities,  to  none  confined. 
Bless,  like  the  sun,  the  rain,  the  wind  ; 
Thy  schools  the  human  brute  shall  raise, 
Guide  erring  youth  in  wisdoia's  ways. 
And  leave,  when  w'e  are  turn'd  to  dust, 
A  generation  of  the  just. 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  see  Thee  stand 
The  hope  of  every  other  land  ; 
A  sea-mark  in  the  tide  of  time. 
Rearing  to  heaven  thy  brow  sublime, — 
Whence  beams  of  gospel-splendor  shed 
A  sacred  halo  round  thine  head  ; 
And  gentiles  from  afar  behold 
(Not  as  on  Sinai's  rocks  of  old), 
God, — from  eternity  conceal'd, — 
In  his  own  light,  on  Thee  reveal'd- 

I  love  Thee, — when  I  hear  thy  voice 
Bid  a  despairing  world  rejoice. 
And  loud  from  shore  to  shore  proclaim, 
In  every  tongue,  Messiah's  name  ; 
That  name,  at  which,  from  sea  to  sea, 
All  nations  yet  shall  bow  the  knee. 

I  love  Thee : — next  to  heaven  above. 
Land  of  my  fathers  !  Thee  I  love  ; 
And,  rail  thy  slanderers  as  they  will, 
«  With  all  thy  faults  I  love  Thee  still : " 
For  faults  Thou  hast,  of  heinous  size ; 
Repent,  renounce  them,  ere  they  rise 
In  judgment, — lest  thine  ocean-wall 
With  boundless  ruin  round  Thee  fall. 
And  that,  which  w-as  thy  mightiest  stay 
Sweep  all  thy  rocks  like  sand  away. 

Yes,  Thou  hast  faults  of  heinous  size. 
From  which  I  turn  wdth  weeping  eyes ; 
On  these  let  them  that  hale  Thee  dwell : 
Yet  one  I  spare  not, — one  I  tell. 
Tell  with  a  whisper  in  thine  ear ; 
Oh  !  might  it  viring  thine  heart  with  fear ! 
Oh !  that  my  weakest  word  might  roll. 
Like  heaven's  own  thunder,  through  thy  soul! 

There  is  a  Lie  in  thy  right  hand — 
A  Bribe,  corrupting  all  the  land  ; 
There  is  within  thy  gates  a  pest, 
. — Gold  and  a  Bahylonish  vest ; 
Not  hid  in  shame-concealing  shade, 
But  broad  against  the  sun  display'd. 
These, — tell  it  not, — it  7nnst  be  told  : 
These  from  thy  Lottery- Wheels  are  sold ; 
Sold, — and  thy  children,  train'd  to  sin, 
Hazard  both  w'orlds  these  plagues  to  win ; 
Nay,  thy  deluded  statesmen  stake 
Thyself, — and  lose  Thee  for  their  sake ! 
Lose  Thee  ? — they  shall  not : — He,  whose  wili 
Is  Nature's  law,  preserves  thee  still ; 
And,  while  the  uplifted  bolt  impends, 
One  warning  more  his  mercy  sends. 

O  Britain !  0  my  country  !  bring 
Forth  from  thy  camp  the  accursed  thing 
Consign  it  to  remorseless  fire, 
Watch  till  the  latest  spark  expire, 

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165 


Then  cast  the  ashes  on  the  wind, 
Nor  leave  one  atom-wreck  behind. 

So  may  thy  wealth  and  power  increase, 
So  may  thy  people  dwell  in  peace ; 
On  thee  the  Almighty's  glory  rest, 
And  all  the  world  in  thee  be  blest. 


THE  ALPS— A  REVERIE. 

Part  I.  Day. 

The  mountains  of  this  glorious  land 
Are  conscious  beings  to  mine  eye, 
When  at  the  break  of  day  they  stand 
Like  giants,  looking  through  the  sky, 
To  hail  the  sun's  unrisen  car, 
That  gilds  their  diadems  of  snow ; 
While  one  by  one,  as  star  by  star. 
Their  peaks  in  ether  glow. 

Their  silent  presence  fills  my  soul, 

When  to  the  horizontal  ray 

The  many-tinctured  vapors  roll 

In  evanescent  wreaths  away, 

And  leave  them  naked  on  the  scene, 

The  emblems  of  eternity. 

The  same  as  they  have  ever  been, 

And  shall  for  ever  be.  • 

Yet  through  the  valley  while  I  range, 
Their  cliffs,  like  images  in  dreams. 
Color,  and  shape,  and  station  change ; 
Here  crags  and  caverns,  woods,  and  streams, 
And  seas  of  adamantine  ice, 
With  gardens,  vineyards,  fields  embraced. 
Open  a  way  to  Paradise 
Through  all  the  splendid  waste. 

The  goats  are  hanging  on  the  rocks. 
Wide  through  their  pastures  roam  the  herds  \ 
Peace  on  the  uplands  feeds  her  flocks. 
Till  suddenly  the  king  of  birds 
Pouncing  a  lamb,  they  start  for  fear : 
He  bears  his  bleating  prize  on  high  ; 
The  well-known  plaint  his  nestlings  hear, 
And  raise  a  ravening  cry. 

The  sun  in  morning  freshness  shines : 
At  noon  behold  his  orb  o'ercast  ; 
Hollow  and  dreary  o'er  the  pines. 
Like  distant  ocean,  moans  the  blast : 
The  mountains  darken  at  the  sound, 
Put  on  their  armor,  and  anon. 
In  panoply  of  clouds  wTapt  round 
Their  forms  from  sight  are  gone. 

Hark !  war  in  heaven ! — the  battle-shout 

Of  thunder  rends  the  echoing  air ; 

Lo  I  war  in  heaven  ! — thick-flashing  out 

Through  torrent-rains,  red  lightnings  glare  ; 

As  though  the  Alps,  with  mortal  ire. 

At  once  a  thousand  voices  raised  ; 

And  with  a  thousand  swords  of  fire 

At  once  in  conflict  blazed. 

2E 


Part  II.   Night 

Come,  golden  Evening,  in  the  west 
Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun. 
And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 
O'er  all  the  mountain-tops  : — 'tis  done; 
The  deluge  ceases :  bold  and  bright, 
The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill  ; 
Down  sinks  the  sun ;  on  presses  night ; 
— Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still. 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ; — spread 
The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 
And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead. 
The  stars  like  saints  in  glory  meet : 
While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 
Methinks  I  muse  on  Nature's  tomb. 
And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 
Step  through  the  gloom. 

All  in  a  moment,  crash  on  crash. 
From  precipice  to  precipice. 
An  avalanche's  ruins  dash 
Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss  • 
Invisible,  the  ear  alone 
Follows  the  uproar  till  it  dies : 
Echo  on  echo,  groan  for  groan. 
From  deep  to  deep  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, — 
Darkness  that  may  be  felt ; — but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 
The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon ; 
In  half  eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn. 
Yet,  o'er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme, 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a  morn 
With  her  awakening  beam. 

Ha !  at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 

Unreal  mockeries  appear  ; 

With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 

Enlarging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere  ; 

A  crowd  of  apparitions  pale ! 

I  hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense, 

— They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail, — 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

I  breathe  again,  I  freely  breathe ; 

Lake  of  Geneva!  thee  I  trace. 

Like  Dian's  crescent  far  beneath. 

And  beautiful  as  Dian's  face  : 

Pride  of  this  land  of  liberty ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I  love  ; 

Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  the«> 

Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I  stray 
The  trance  of  poesy  is  o'er. 
And  I  am  here  at  dawn  of  day. 
Gazing  on  mountains  as  before  ; 
For  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 
Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind : 
Thus,  in  the  fairy-land  of  thought, 
Whate'er  I  seek  I  find. 

Yet,  O  ye  everlasting  hills ! 
Buildings  of  God,  not  madfe-  with  hands, 
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Whose  word  performs  whate'er  He  wills, 
Whose  word,  though  ye  shall  perish,  stands 
Can  there  be  eyes  that  look  on  you. 
Till  tears  of  rapture  make  ihem  dim, 
Nor  in  his  works  the  Maker  view, 
Then  lose  his  works  in  Him  ? 

By  me,  when  I  behold  Him  not, 
Or  love  Him  not  when  I  behold, 
Be  all  I  ever  knew  forgot ; 
My  pulse  stand  still,  my  heart  grow  cold ; 
Transfer m'd  to  ice,  'twixt  earth  and  sky. 
On  yonder  cliiF  my  form  be  seen, 
That  all  may  ask,  but  none  reply, 
What  my  offence  hath  been. 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS. 

Flowers  !  wherefore  do  ye  bloom  ? 
— We  strew  thy  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Stars !  wherefore  do  ye  rise  ? 
— ^To  light  thy  spirit  to  the  skies. 

Fair  Moon !  why  dost  thou  wane  ? 
— That  I  may  wax  again. 

O  Sun !  what  makes  thy  beams  so  bright  ? 
— The  Word,  that  said  "  Let  there  be  light" 

Planets !  what  guides  you  in  your  course  ? 
— Unseen,  unfelt,  unfailing  force. 

Nature !  whence  sprang  thy  glorious  frame  ? 
— My  Maker  call'd  me,  and  I  came. 

O  Light !  thy  subtle  essence  who  may  know  ? 
— Ask  not ;  for  all  things  but  myself  I  show. 

What  is  yon  arch  which  everywhere  I  see  ? 
— The  sign  of  omnipresent  Deity. 

Where  rests  the  horizon's  all-embracing  zone  ? 
— Where  earth,  God's  footstool,  touches  heaven,  his 
throne. 

Ye  clouds  !  what  bring  ye  in  your  train ! 

— God's  embassies, — storm,  lightning,  hail,  or  rain. 

Winds !  whence  and  whither  do  ye  blow  ? 
— ^Thou  must  be  bom  again  to  know. 

Bow  m  the  cloud  !  what  token  dost  thou  bear  ? 
—That  Justice  still  cries  "  strike,"  and  Mercy  "  spare." 

Dews  of  the  morning !  wherefore  were  ye  given  ? 
— To  shine  on  earth,  then  rise  to  heaven. 

Rise,  ghtter,  break  ;  5'et,  Bubble !  tell  me  why  ? 
—To  show  the  course  of  all  beneath  the  sky. 

Stay,  Meteor !  stay  thy  falling  fire. 

^-^0 :  thus  shall  all  the  host  of  heaven  expire. 

Ocean !  what  law  thy  chainless  waves  confined  ? 
— That  which  in  Reason's  limits  holds  thy  mind. 


1  ime  !  whither  dost  thou  flee  ? 
— I  travel  to  Eternity. 

Eternity !  what  art  thou  ? — say. 

— Time  past  time  present,  time  to  come, — cO-day 

Ye  Dead !  where  can  your  dwelling  be  ? 

— The  house  for  all  the  living ; — come  and  see. 

0  Life  !  what  is  ihy  breath  ? 
— A  vapor  lost  in  death. 

O  Death !  how  ends  thy  strife  ? 
— In  everlasting  life. 

O  Grave  !  W'here  is  thy  victory  ? 
— Ask  Him  who  rose  again  for  me. 


YOUTH  RENEWED. 

Spring-flowers,  spring-birds,  spring-breezes 

Are  felt,  and  heard,  and  seen  ; 

Light  trembling  transport  seizes 

My  heart, — with  sighs  between  : 

These  old  enchantments  fill  the  mind 

With  scenes  and  seasons  far  behind ; 

Childhood,  its  smiles  and  tears, 

Youth,  with  its  flush  of  years. 

Its  morning-clouds  and  dewy  prime, 

More  exquisitely  touch'd  by  Time. 

Fancies  again  are  springing. 
Like  May-flowers  in  the  vales  ; 
While  hopes,  long  lost,  are  singing, 
From  thorns,  like  nightingales  ; 
And  kindly  spirits  stir  my  blood, 
Like  vernal  airs,  that  curl  the  flood : 
There  falls  to  manhood's  lot 
A  joy,  which  youth  has  not 
A  dream,  more  beautiful  than  truth, 
— Returning  Spring,  renewing  Youth. 

Thus  sweetly  to  surrender 
The  present  for  the  past ; 
In  sprightly  mood,  yet  tender, 
Life's  burthen  down  to  cast, 
— This  is  to  taste,  from  stage  to  stage. 
Youth  on  the  lees  refined  by  age : 
Like  wine  well  kept  and  long, 
Heady,  nor  harsh,  nor  strong. 
With  every  annual  cup,  is  quaff 'd 
A  richer,  purer,  mellower  draught. 


THE  BRIDAL  AND  THE  BURIAL. 

"  Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on ; 
Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on." 

I  saw  thee  young  and  beautiful, 

I  saw  thee  rich  and  gay, 

In  the  first  blush  of  womanhood. 

Upon  thy  wedding-day: 

The  church-bells  rang. 

And  the  little  children  sang, — 

"  Flowers,  flowers,  Idss  her  feet ; 

Sweets  to  the  sweet ! 

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167 


The  winter 's  past,  the  rains  are  gone : 
Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on." 

I  saw  thee  poor  and  desolate, 

I  saw  thee  fade  away, 

In  broken-hearted  widowhood 

Before  thy  locks  were  grey  : 

The  death-ljell  rang, 

And  the  little  children  sang, — 

"  Lilies !  dress  her  winding-sheet ; 

Sweets  to  the  sweet . 

The  summer  's  past,  the  sunshine  gone  : 

Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on.' 

"  Blessed  is  the  bride  whom  the  sun  shines  on ; 
Blessed  is  the  corpse  which  the  rain  rains  on." 


FRIENDS. 


Friend  after  friend  departs  ; 
Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts, 
That  finds  not  here  an  end  : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  Time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 

There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath. 

Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire. 

Whose  sparks  fly  upward  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 
Where  parting  is  imknown — 
A  whole  eternity  of  love, 
Form'd  for  the  good  alone ; 
And  faith  beliolds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 


Thus  star  by  star  declines, 

Till  all  are  oassed  away, — 

As  morninM|igh  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  aiKTperfect  day  ; 

Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 

— They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light 


A  IMOTHER'S  LAMENT 

0\  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  INFANT  DAUGHTER. 

I  LOVED  thee,  Daughter  of  my  heart ! 
My  Child,  I  loved  thee  dearly ; 
And  though  we  only  met  to  part, 
— How  sweetly  !  how  severely ! — 
Nor  life  nor  death  can  sever 
My  soul  from  thine  for  ever. 

Thy  days,  ray  little  one!  were  few: 
An  Angel's  morning  \-isit. 
That  came  and  vanish'd  with  the  dew ; 
'T  was  here,  't  is  gone — where  is  it  ? 
Yet  didst  ihou  leave  behind  thee 
A  clew  for  love  to  find  thee. 

The  eye,  the  lip,  the  cheek,  the  brow. 
The  hands  stretch'd  forth  in  gladness, 


All  hfe,  joy,  rapture,  beauty  now, — 
Then  dash'd  with  infant  sadness  ; 
Till,  brightening  by  transition, 
Return'd  the  fairy  vision  : — 

Where  are  they  now  ? — those  smiles,  those  tears 

Thy  Mother's  darUng  treasure  I 

She  sees  them  still,  and  still  she  hears 

Thy  tones  of  pain  or  pleasure, — 

To  her  quick  pulse  revealing 

Unutterable  feeling. 

Hush'd  in  a  moment  on  her  breast. 

Life  at  the  well-spring  drinking ; 

Then  cradled  on  her  lap  lo  rest, 

In  rosy  slumber  sinking  : 

Thy  dreams — no  thought  can  guess  them ; 

And  mine — no  tongue  express  them. 

For  then  this  waking  eye  could  see. 

In  many  a  vain  vagary. 

The  things  that  never  were  to  be. 

Imaginations  airy ; 

Fond  hopes  that  mothers  cherish, 

Like  still-born  babes  to  perish. 

Mine  perish'd  on  thy  early  bier  ; 

No — changed  to  forms  more  glorious, 

They  flourish  in  a  higher  sphere, 

O'er  time  and  death  victorious  ; 

Yet  would  these  arms  have  chain'd  thee. 

And  long  from  Heaven  detain'd  thee. 

Sarah  !  my  last,  my  youngest  love, 

The  crown  of  every  other ! 

Though  thou  art  born  in  Heaven  above, 

I  am  thine  only  Mother, 

Nor  will  affection  let  me 

Believe  thou  canst  forget  me. 

Then, — thou  in  Heaven  and  I  on  earth, — 

May  this  one  hope  delight  us. 

That  thou  wilt  hail  my  second  birth. 

When  death  shall  reunite  us, 

Where  worlds  no  more  can  sever 

Parent  and  child  for  ever. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  FATHERLESS. 

Well,  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left : 
But  oh !  how  cold  and  dark  to  me 
This  world,  of  every  charm  bereft. 
Where  all  was  beautiful  with  thee ! 

Though  I  have  seen  thy  form  depart 
For  ever  from  my  widow'd  eye, 
I  hold  thee  in  mine  inmost  heart ; 
There,  there  at  least,  thou  canst  not  die. 

Farewell  on  earth :  Heaven  claim'd  its  own : 
Yet,  when  from  me  thy  presence  went, 
I  was  exchanged  for  God  alone  : 
Let  dust  and  ashes  learn  content. 

Ha  !  those  small  voices,  silver  sweet ! 
Fresh  from  the  fields  my  babes  appeal  , 
They  fill  my  arms,  they  clasp  my  feel : 
— "Oh I  could  vour  father  see  us  here!" 

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MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  DAISY  IN  INDIA. 


Supposed  to  be  addressed  by  the  Reverend  Dr.  Carey,  the  learn- 
ed and  illustrious  Baptist  Missionary  at  Serampore,  to  the 
first  plant  of  this  kind,  which  sprang  up  unexpectedly  in  his 
garden,  out  of  some  English  earth,  in  which  other  seeds  had 
been  conveyed  to  him  from  this  country.  With  great  care 
and  nursing,  the  Doctor  has  been  enabled  to  perpetuate  the 
Daisy  in  India,  as  an  annual  only,  raised  by  seed  preserved 
from  season  to  season. 


Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower  I 
My  mother  country's  white  and  red, 
In  rose  or  lily,  till  this  hour, 
Never  to  me  such  beauty  spread  : 
Transplanted  from  thine  island-bed, 
A  treasure  in  a  grain  of  earth, 
Strange  as  a  spirit  from  the  dead, 
Thine  embryo  sprang  to  birth. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
Whose  tribes,  beneath  our  natal  skies. 
Shut  close  their  leaves  while  vapors  lower  ,• 
But,  when  the  sun's  gay  beams  arise, 
With  unabash'd  but  modest  eyes, 
Follow  his  motion  to  the  west, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  till  daylight  dies, 
Then  fold  themselves  to  rest. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower. 
To  this  resplendent  hemisphere, 
Where  Flora's  giant  ofl^spring  tower 
In  gorgeous  liveries  all  the  year  ; 
Thou,  only  thou,  art  little  here, 
Like  worth  unfriended  and  unknown. 
Yet  to  my  British  heart  more  dear 
Than  all  the  torrid  zone. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
Of  early  scenes  beloved  by  me, 
While  happy  in  my  father's  bower. 
Thou  shalt  the  blithe  memorial  be ; 
The  fairy  sports  of  infancy. 
Youth's  golden  age,  and  manhood's  prime. 
Home,  country,  kindred,  friends, — with  thee, 
I  find  in  this  far  clime. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower! 
I  '11  rear  thee  with  a  trembling  hand  : 
Oh,  for  the  April  sun  and  shov^er. 
The  sweet  May-dews  of  that  lair  land. 
Where  Daisies,  thick  as  star-light,  stand 
In  every  walk ! — that  here  may  shoot 
Thy  scions,  and  thy  buds  expand, 
A  hundred  from  one  root. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower! 
To  me  the  pledge  of  hope  unseen  ; 
When  sorrow  would  my  soul  o'erpower 
For  joys  that  were,  or  might  have  been, 
I  '11  call  to  mind  how,  fresh  and  green, 
I  saw  thee  waking  from  the  dust; 
Then  turn  to  heaven  with  brow  serene. 
And  place  in  God  my  trust. 


THE  DROUGHT. 
WRITTEN  IN  THE  SUM3IER  OF  1826. 


Hosea,  ii,  21,  22. 


What  strange,  what  fearful  thing  hath  come  to  pass  ? 
The  ground  is  iron,  and  the  heavens  are  brass ; 
Man  on  the  withering  harvests  casts  his  eye, 
"  Give  me  your  fruits  in  season,  or  I  die  ;" 
The  timely  Fruits  implore  their  parent  Earth, 
"  Where  is  thy  strength  to  bring  us  forth  to  birth  ? " 
The  Earth,  all  prostrate,  to  the  Clouds  complains, 
"  Send  to  my  heart  your  fertilizing  rains  ;" 
The  Clouds  invoke  the  Heavens, — "  Collect,  dispense 
Through  us  your  quickening,  healing  influence  ; " 
The  Heavens  to  Him  that  made  them  raise  their  moan, 
"  Command  thy  blessing,  and  it  shall  be  done : " 
The  Lord  is  in  his  temple ; — hush'd  and  still. 
The  suppliant  Universe  awaits  his  will. 

He  speaks ;  and  to  the  Clouds  the  Heavens  dispense. 
With  lightning-speed,  their  genial  influence  ; 
The  gathering,  breaking  Clouds  pour  down  their  rains. 
Earth  drinks  the  bliss  through  all  her  eager  veins ; 
From  teeming  furrows  start  the  Fruits  to  birth. 
And  shake  their  treasures  on  the  lap  of  Earth ; 
Man  sees  the  harvests  grow  beneath  his  eye, 
Turns,  and  looks  up  with  rapture  to  the  sky  ; 
All  that  have  breath  and  being  now  rejoice ; 
All  Nature's  voices  blend  in  one  great  voice, 
"  Glory  to  God,  who  thus  himself  makes  known  I" 
— When  shall  all  tongues  confess  Him  God  alone  ? 
Lord, as  the  rain  comes  down  from  Heaven ; — the  rain 
Which  waters  Earth,  nor  thence  returns  in  vain, 
But  makes  the  tree  to  bud,  the  grass  to  spring, 
And  feeds  and  gladdens  every  living  thing ; 
So  may  thy  word,  upon  a  world  destroy'd. 
Come  down  in  blessing,  and  return  not  void ; 
So  may  it  come  in  universal  showers. 
And  fill  Earth's  dreariest  wilderness  with  flowers, 
— With  flowers  of  promise  fill  the  world,  within 
Man's  heart,  laid  waste  and  desolate  by  sin  ; 
Where  thorns  and  thistles  curse  tl|^nfested  ground, 
Let  the  rich  fruits  of  righteousness  abound  ; 
And  trees  of  life,  for  ever  fresh  and  green, 
Flourish  where  trees  of  death  alone  have  been ; 
Let  Truth  look  down  from  Heaven,  Hope  soar  above. 
Justice  and  Mercy  kiss,  Faith  work  by  Love  ; 
Nations  new-born  their  fathers'  idols  spurn  ; 
The  ransom'd  of  the  Lord  with  songs  return ; 
Heralds !  the  year  of  Jubilee  proclaim ; 
Bow  every  knee  at  the  Redeemer's  name ; 
O'er  lands,  with  darkness,  thraldom,  guilt,  o'erspread, 
In  light,  joy,  freedom,  be  the  Spirit  shed  ; 
Speak  Thou  the  word ;  to  Satan's  power  say,"  Cease," 
But  to  a  world  of  pardon'd  sinners,  "  Peace." 
— Thus  in  thy  grace,  Lord  God,  Thyself  make  known 
Then  shall  all  tongues  confess  Thee  God  alone. 


THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS  FRIEND 


"  Ye  have  done  it  unto  me." — Matt,  xxv,  40. 


A  POOR  wayfaring  man  of  grief 
Hath  often  cross'd  me  on  my  way, 


352 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


169 


Who  sued  so  humbly  for  reUef, 
That  I  could  never  answer,  "  Say  : " 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came, 
Yet  was  there  something  in  liis  eye, 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 


Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  enter'd  ; — not  a  word  he  spake ; — 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread  ; 
I  gave  him  all ;  he  bless'd  it,  brake, 
And  ate, — but  gave  me  part  again  ; 
Mine  was  an  Angel's  portion  then, 
For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 


I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was  gone : 

The  heedless  water  mock'd  his  thirst. 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  : 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drain'd  ray  cup, 

Dipt,  and  return'd  it  running  o'er ; 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 


'T  was  night ;  the  floods  were  out ;  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 

I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof; 

I  warm'd,  I  clothed,  I  cheer'd  my  guest. 

Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 

Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seem'd 

In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dreara'd. 


Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 
I  found  him  by  the  highway-side : 
[  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath. 
Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  heal'd  ; 
I  had  myself  a  wound  conceal'd ; 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart. 
And  Peace  bound  up  ray  broken  heart. 


In  prison  I  saw  him  next,  condemn'd 
To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  morn ; 
The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemm'd. 
And  honor'd  him  'midst  shame  and  scorn ; 
My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try. 
He  ask'd,  if  I  for  him  would  die ; 
The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 
But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "  I  will." 


Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 

The  Stranger  darted  from  disguise, 

The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew, 

My  Savior  stood  before  mine  eyes  : 

He  spake ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named  ; 

"  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed : 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 

Fear  not,  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 

45  2E2 


A  SEA  PIECE, 

IN    THREE    SONNETS. 
-Scene.— Bridlinston  Quay,  1824. 


•     I. 

At  nightfall,  walking  on  the  cliff-crown'd  shore, 

Where  sea  and  sky  were  in  each  other  lost ; 

Dark  ships  were  scudding  through  the  wild  uproar. 

Whose  wrecks  ere  morn  must  strew  the  dreary  coast! 

I  mark'd  one  well-raoor'd  vessel  tempest-tost. 

Sails  reef'd,  helm  lash'd, — a  dreadful  siege  she  bore; 

Her  deck  by  billow  after  billow  cross'd. 

While  every  moment  she  might  be  no  more : 

Yet  firmly  anchor'd  on  the  nether  sand, 

Like  a  chain'd  lion  ramping  at  his  foes, 

Forward  and  rearward  still  she  plunged  and  rose. 

Till  broke  her  cable ; — then  she  fled  to  land, 

With  all  the  waves  in  chase;  throes  following  throes; 

She  'scaped, — she  struck, — she  stood  upon  the  strand. 

n. 

The  mom  was  beautiful,  the  storm  gone  by ; 
Three  days  had  pass'd  ;  I  saw  the  peaceful  main, 
One  molten  mirror,  one  illumined  plane. 
Clear  as  the  blue,  sublime,  o'er-arching  sky : 
On  shore  that  lonely  vessel  caught  mine  eye. 
Her  bow  was  sea-ward,  all  equipt  her  train. 
Yet  to  the  sun  she  spread  her  wings  in  vain, 
Like  a  chain'd  eagle,  impotent  to  fly; 
There  fix'd  as  if  for  ever  to  abide  : 
Far  down  the  beach  had  roll'd  the  low  neap-tide. 
Whose  mingling  murmur  faintly  luU'd  the  ear  : 
"  Is  this,"  methought,  "  is  this  the  doom  of  pride, 
Check'd  in  the  onset  of  thy  brave  career, 
Ingloriously  to  rot  by  piecemeal  here?" 

III. 

Spring-tides  return'd,  and  Fortune  smiled:  the  bay 
Received  the  rushing  ocean  to  its  breast ; 
While  waves  on  wave?,  innumerably  prest, 
Seem'd,  with  the  prancing  of  their  proud  array, 
Sea-horses,  flash'd  with  foam,  and  snorting  spray; 
Their  power  and  thunder  broke  that  vessel's  rest ; 
Slowly,  with  new  expanding  life  possest. 
To  her  own  element  she  glid  away  ; 
Buoyant  and  bounding  like  the  polar  whale. 
That  takes  his  pastime  ;  every  joyful  sail 
Was  to  the  freedom  of  the  wind  unfurl'd. 
While  right  and  left  the  parted  surges  curl'd : 
— Go,  gallant  bark,  with  such  a  tide  and  gale, 
I  '11  pledge  thee  to  a  voyage  lound  the  world. 


ROBERT  BURNS 

What  bird  in  beauty,  flight,  or  song. 
Can  with  the  bard  compare, 
Who  sang  as  sweet,  and  soar'd  as  strong 
As  ever  child  of  air  ? 

His  plume,  his  note,  liis  form,  could  Burns.. 
Fpr  whim  or  pleasure  change  ; 
He  was  not  one,  but  all  by  turns. 
With  transmigration  strange. 

353 


170 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  black-bird,  oracle  of  spring. 
When  flow'd  his  moral  lay; 
The  swallow,  wheeling  on  the  wing, 
Capriciously  at  play : 

The  Humming-bird,  from  bloom  to  bloom, 
Inhaling  heavenly  balm ; 
The  Raven,  in  the  tempest's  gloom ; 
The  Halcyon,  in  the  calm: 

In  "  auld  Kirk  Alloway,"  the  Owl, 
4t  witching  time  of  night ; 
By  "  bonnie  Doon,"  the  earliest  Fowl 
That  caroU'd  to  the  light. 

He  was  the  Wren  amidst  the  grove, 
When  in  his  homely  vein  ; 
At  Bannockburn  the  Bird  of  Jove, 
With  thunder  in  his  train : 

The  Wood-lark,  in  his  mournfal  hours  ; 
The  Goldfinch,  in  his  mirth  ; 
The  Thrush,  a  spendthrift  of  his  powers, 
Enrapturing  heaven  and  earth  ; 

The  Swan,  in  majesty  and  grace, 
Contemplative  and  still  ; 
But,  roused, — no  Falcon  in  the  chase. 
Could  like  his  satire  kill. 

The  Linnet  in  simplicity, 

In  tenderness  the  Dove  ; 

But  more  than  all  beside  was  he. 

The  Nightingale  in  love. 

Oh !  had  he  never  stoop'd  to  shame, 
Nor  lent  a  charm  to  vice. 
How  had  devotion  loved  to  name 
That  Bird  of  Paradise  ! 

Peace  to  the  dead ! — In  Scotia's  choir 
Of  Minstrels  great  and  small. 
He  sprang  from  his  spontaneous  fire, 
The  Phoenix  of  them  all. 


A  THEME  FOR  A  POET.— 1814 

The  arrow  that  shall  lay  me  low, 

Was  shot  from  Death's  unerring  bow 

The  moment  of  my  breath  ; 

And  every  footstep  I  proceed. 

It  tracks  me  with  increasing  speed  : 

I  turn, — it  meets  me, — Death 

Has  given  such  impulse  to  that  dart, 

It  points  for  ever  at  my  heart. 

And  soon  of  me  it  must  be  said. 

That  I  have  lived,  that  I  am  dead : 

Of  all  I  leave  behind, 

A  few  may  weep  a  little  while. 

Then  bless  my  memory  with  a  smile  ; 

What  monument  of  mind 

Shall  I  bequeath  to  deathless  Fame, 

That  after-times  may  love  my  name  ? 

Let  Sou  they  sing  of  war's  alarms, 
The  pride  of  battle,  din  of  arm.s, 


The  glory  and  the  guilt, — 

Of  nations  barb'roiisly  enslaved. 

Of  realms  by  patriot  valor  saved, 

Of  blood  insanely  spilt, 

And  millions  sacrificed  to  fate. 

To  make  one  little  mortal  great. 

Let  Scott,  in  wilder  strains,  delight 

To  chaunt  the  Lady  and  the  Knight, 

The  tournament,  the  chase. 

The  wizard's  deed  without  a  name, 

Perils  by  ambush,  flood,  and  flame  ; 

Or  picturesquely  trace 

The  hills  that  form  a  world  on  high. 

The  lake  that  seems  a  downward  sky. 

Let  Byron  with  untrembling  hand, 
Impetuous  foot,  and  fiery  brand. 
Lit  at  the  flames  of  hell, 
Go  down  and  search  the  human  heart. 
Till  fiends  from  every  corner  start, 
Their  crimes  and  plagues  to  tell ; 
Then  let  him  fling  the  torch  away, 
And  sun  his  soul  in  heaven's  pure  day- 
Let  Wordsworth  weave,  in  mystic  rhyme, 
Feelings  inefl^ably  sublime. 
And  sympathies  unknown; 
Yet  so  our  yielding  breasts  enthral, 
His  Genius  shall  possess  us  all. 
His  thoughts  become  our  own. 
And,  strangely  pleased,  we  start  to  fin ', 
Such  hidden  treasures  in  our  mind. 

Let  Campbell's  sweeter  numbers  flow 
Through  every  change  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
Hope's  morning  dreams  display, 
The  Pennsylvanian  cottage  wild. 
The  frenzy  of  O'Connor's  child. 
Or  Linden's  dreadful  day  ; 
And  still  in  each  new  form  appear 
To  every  Muse  and  Grace  more  dear. 

Transcendent  masters  of  the  lyre  ! 
Not  to  your  honors  I  aspire ; 
Humbler,  yet  higher,  views 
Have  touch'd  my  spirit  into  flame : 
The  pomp  of  Fiction  I  disclaim  ; 
Fair  Truth!  be  thou  my  Muse — 
Reveal  in  splendor  deeds  obscure, 
Abase  the  proud,  exalt  the  poor. 

I  sing  the  men  who  left  their  home, 
Amidst  barbarian  hordes  to  roam. 
Who  land  and  ocean  cross'd. 
Led  by  a  load-star,  mark'd  on  high 
By  Faith's  unseen,  all-seeing  eye, — 
To  seek  and  save  the  lost ; 
Where'er  the  curse  on  Adam  spread. 
To  call  his  offspring  from  the  dead. 

Strong  in  the  great  Redeemer's  name, 
They  bore  the  cross,  despised  the  shame, 
And,  like  their  Master  here. 
Wrestled  with  danger,  pain,  distress, 

354 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


J7 


Hunger,  and  cold,  and  nakedness, 

Night  is  the  time  to  think : 

And  every  form  of  fear  ; 

When,  from  the  eye,  the  soul 

To  feel  his  love  their  ■  'Ay  joy, 

Takes  flight ;  and  on  the  utmost  brink 

To  tell  that  love  the-r  sole  employ. 

Of  yonder  starry  pole. 

Discerns  beyond  the  abyss  of  night 

0  Thou,  who  -vvast  in  Bethlehem  bom, 

The  dawn  of  uncreated  light. 

The  Man  of  sorrows  and  of  scorn. 

Jesus,  the  sinners'  Friend  ! 

Night  is  the  time  to  pray  : 

— 0  Thou,  enthroned  in  filial  right. 

Our  Savior  oft  withdrew 

Above  all  crealure-power  and  might ; 

To  desert  motmtains  far  away  ; 

Whose  kingdom  shall  extend, 

So  will  his  follower  do. 

Till  earth,  like  heaven,  thy  name  shall  fill, 

Steal  from  the  throng  to  haunts  untrod, 

And  men,  like  angels,  do  thy  will :— 

And  commune  there  alone  with  God. 

Thou,  whom  I  love,  but  cannot  see, 

Night  is  the  time  for  Death : 

My  Lord,  my  God  1  look  down  on  me  ; 

When  all  around  is  peace, 

My  low  affections  raise  ; 

Calmly  to  yield  the  weary  breath. 

The  spirit  of  liberty  impart, 

From  sin  and  suffering  cease, 

Enlarge  my  soul,  inflame  my  heart. 

Think  of  heaven's  bliss,  and  give  the  sign 

And,  while  I  spread  thy  praise. 

To  parting  friends ; — such  death  be  mine. 

Shine  on  my  path,  in  mercy  shine, 

Prosper  my  work,  and  make  it  thine. 

NIGHT. 


Night  is  the  time  for  rest : 

How  sweet,  when  labors  close. 

To  gather  round  an  aching  breast 

The  curtain  of  repose, 

Stretch  the  tired  limbs,  and  lay  the  head 

Down  on  our  own  dehghtful  bed ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  dreams : 

The  gay  romance  of  life, 

When  truth  that  is,  and  truth  that  seems, 

Mix  in  fantastic  strife  : 

Ah !  visions,  less  beguiling  far 

Than  waking  dreams  by  daylight  are ! 

Night  is  the  time  for  toil  : 

To  plow  the  classic  field. 

Intent  to  find  the  buried  spoil 

Its  wealthy  furrows  yield  ; 

Till  all  is  ours  that  sages  taught, 

That  poets  sang,  and  heroes  wrought. 

Nighi  is  the  time  to  weep : 

To  wet  with  unseen  tears 

Those  graves  of  Memory,  where  sleep 

The  joys  of  other  years  ; 

Hopes,  that  were  Angels  at  their  birth, 

But  died  when  young,  like  things  of  earth. 

Night  is  the  time  to  watch : 
O'er  ocean's  dark  expanse. 
To  hail  the  Pleiades,  or  catch 
The  full  moon's  earliest  glance. 
That  brings  into  the  home-sick  mind 
All  we  have  loved  and  left  behind. 

Night  is  the  time  for  care  : 

Brooding  on  hours  misspent. 

To  see  the  specti'e  of  Despair 

Come  to  our  lonely  tent. ; 

Like  Brutus,  'rnidst  his  slumbering  host, 

Summon'd  to  die  by  Caesar's  ghost. 


MEET  AGAIN.  > 

Joyful  words, — we  meet  again  ! 
Love's  own  language,  comfort  darting 
Through  the  souls  of  friends  at  parting : 
Life  in  death, — we  meet  again ! 

WTiile  we  walk  this  vale  of  tears, 
Compass'd  round  with  care  and  sorrow. 
Gloom  to-day,  and  storm  to-morrow, 
"  Meet  again  I "  our  bosom  cheers. 

Far  in  exile,  when  we  roam. 

O'er  our  lost  endearments  weeping, 

Lonely,  silent  vigils  keeping, 

"  Meet  again ! "  transports  us  home. 

When  this  weary  world  is  past, 
Happy  they,  whose  spirits  soaring, 
Vast  eternity  exploring, 
"  Meet  again  I "  in  heaven  at  last. 


VIA  CRUCIS,  VIA  LUCIS. 

Night  turns  to  day  : — 

When  sullen  darkness  lowers, 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  hid  from  sight, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! 

Ere  long  the  opening  flowers. 

With  dewy  eyes,  shall  shine  in  light. 

Storms  die  in  calms  : — 

W^hen  over  land  and  ocean 

Roll  the  loud  chariots  of  the  wind, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  I 

The  voice  of  wild  commotion 

Proclaims  tranquillity  behind. 


1  The  seven  following  pieces  were  written  for  "  Select  for- 
eign Airs,"  published  some  time  aso  under  the  title  of  "  Polif- 
hymnia;'  which  will  account  for  the  peculiar  rhythm  adopted 
in  several  of  them.  The  four  first  were  paraphrased  from  tha 
German;  the  words  of  the  remaining  three  are  original. 

355 


172 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Winter  wakes  Spring : — 

When  icy  blasts  are  blowing 

O'er  frozen  lakes,  through  naked  trees, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up ! 

All  beautiful  and  glowing, 

May  floats  in  fragrance  on  the  breeze. 

War  ends  in  peace : — 

Though  dread  artillery  rattle, 

And  ghastly  corses  load  the  ground, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up ! 

Where  groan'd  the  field  of  battle. 

The  song,  the  dance,  the  feast  go  round. 

Toil  brings  repose : — 

With  noontide  fervors  beating. 

When  droop  thy  temples  o'er  thy  breast. 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  I 

Grey  twilight,  cool  and  fleeting, 

Waits  on  its  wing  the  hour  of  rest. 

Death  springs  to  life : — 

Though  brief  and  sad  thy  storJ^ 

Thy  years  all  spent  in  care  and  gloom, 

Look  up,  look  up ! 

Eternity  and  glory 

Dawn  through  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 


THE  PILGRIM. 

How  blest  the  Pilgrim,  who  in  trouble 

Can  lean  upon  a  bosom  friend  ; 

Strength,  courage,  hope,  with  him  redouble. 

When  foes  assail,  or  griefs  impend  ; 

Care  flees  before  his  footsteps,  straving, 

At  daybreak,  o'er  the  purple  heath  ; 

He  plucks  the  wild  flowers  round  him  playins 

And  binds  their  beauty  in  a  wreath. 

More  dear  to  him  the  fields  and  mountains, 
When  with  his  friend  abroad  he  roves, 
Rests  in  the  shade  near  sunny  fountains. 
Or  talks  by  moonlight  through  the  groves  : 
For  him  the  vine  expands  its  clusters. 
Spring  wakes  for  him  her  woodland  quire, 
Yea,  when  the  storm  of  winter  blusters, 
'Tis  summer  round  his  evening  fire. 

In  good  old  age  serenely  dying. 

When  all  he  loved  forsakes  his  view, 

Sweet  is  Aflfection's  voice,  replying 

"  I  follow  soon,"  to  his  '*  Adieu ! " 

Even  then,  though  earthly  ties  are  riven, 

The  spirit's  union  will  not  end  ; 

-. — Happy  the  man,  whom  Heaven  hath  given, 

In  life  and  death,  a  faithful  friend. 


GERMAN  WAR-SONG.' 

Heaven  speed  the  righteous  sword, 
And  freedom  be  the  word  ! 
Come,  brethren  !  hand  in  hand, 
Fight  for  your  father-land. 


1  The  simple  and  sublime  original  of  these  stanzas,  with  the 
inc  air  by  Himmel,  became  the  national  song  of  Germany,  and 
was  sCDg  by  th<'  soldiers  especially,  during  the  latter  campaigns 
of  the  war,  when  Buonaparte  was  twice  dethroned,  and  Europe 
fijially  delivejed  from  French  predominance. 


Germania  from  afar 
Invokes  her  sons  to  war; 
Aw  ake  !  put  forth  your  powers, 
And  victory  must  be  ours. 

On  to  the  combat,  on ! 
Go  where  your  sires  have  gone ; 
Their  might  unspent  remains, 
Their  pulse  is  in  our  veins. 

On  to  the  battle,  on ! 
Rest  will  be  sweet  anon  ; 
The  slave  may  yield,  may  fly, 
We  conquer,  or  we  die. 

O  Liberty !  thy  form 

Shines  through  the  battle-storm; 

Away  with  fear,  aAvay ! 

Let  justice  win  the  day. 


REMINISCENCES. 

Where  are  ye  with  whom  in  life  I  started, 

Dear  companions  of  my  golden  days  ? 

Ye  are  dead,  estranged  fi-om  me,  or  parted, 

— Flown,  like  morning  clouds,  a  thousand  ways. 

Where  art  thou,  in  youth  my  friend  and  brother, 
Yea,  in  soul  my  friend  and  brother  still  ? 
Heaven  received  thee,  and  on  earth  none  other 
Can  the  void  in  my  lorn  bosom  fill. 

Where  is  she,  whose  looks  were  love  and  gladness 
— Love  and  gladness  I  no  longer  see ! 
She  is  gone ;  and  since  that  hour  of  sadness, 
Nature  seems  her  sepulchre  to  me. 

W^here  am  I  ? — life's  current,  faintly  flowing, 
Brings  the  welcome  warning  of  release ; 
Struck  wilh  death,  ah  !  whither  am  I  going  ? 
All  is  well — my  spirit  parts  in  peace. 


THE  AGES  OF  MAN. 

Youth,  fond  youth !  to  thee  in  life's  gay  mornmg. 

New  and  wonderful  are  heaven  and  earth ; 

Health  the  hills,  content  the  fields  adorning. 

Nature  rings  with  melody  and  mirth; 

Love  invisible,  beneath,  above. 

Conquers  all  things;  all  things  yield  to  love. 

Time,  swift  time,  from  years  their  motion  stealing, 
Unperceived  hath  sober  manhood  brought ; 
Truth,  her  pure  and  humble  forms  revealing. 
Peoples  fancy's  fairy-land  wilh  thought ; 
Then  the  heart,  no  longer  prone  to  roam. 
Loves,  loves  best,  the  quiet  bhss  of  home. 

Age,  old  age,  in  sickness,  pain,  and  sorrow, 
Creeps  with  lengthening  shadow  o'er  the  scene , 
Life  was  yesterday,  'lis  deatli  to-morrow% 
And  to-(]ay  the  agony  between: 
Then  how  longs  the  wear\-  soul  for  thee. 
Bright  and  beautiful  eternity  I 

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173 


ASPIRATIONS  OF  YOUTH. 

Higher,  higher  will  we  climb 

Up  the  mount  of  glory, 

That  our  names  may  live  through  time 

In  our  country's  story  : 

Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls, 

He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls. 

Deeper,  deeper  let  us  toil 
In  the  mines  of  knowledge — 
Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoil 
Win  from  school  and  college  ; 
Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 
Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onward  will  we  press 
Through  the  path  of  duty ; 
Virtue  is  true  happiness. 
Excellence  true  beauty : 
Minds  are  of  supernal  birth. 
Let  us  make  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Close  and  closer  then  we  knit 
Hearts  and  hands  together, 
Where  our  fire-side  comforts  sit 
In  the  wildest  weather : 
Oh  I  they  wander  wide,  who  roam, 
For  the  joys  of  life,  from  home. 

Nearer,  dearer  bands  of  love 
Draw  our  souls  in  union. 
To  our  Father's  house  above, 
To  the  saints'  communion ; 
Thither  every  hope  ascend. 
There  may  all  our  labors  end. 


A  HERMITAGE. 

Whose  is  this  humble  dwelling-place, 
The  flat  turf-roof  with  flowers  o'ergrown  ? 
Ah!  here  the  tenant's  name  I  trace, 
Moss-cover'd,  on  the  threshold  stone. 

Well,  he  has  peace  within  and  rest. 
Though  nought  of  all  the  world  beside ; 
Yet,  stranger!  deem  not  him  unblest. 
Who  knows  not  avarice,  tust,  or  pride. 

Nothing  he  asks,  nothing  he  cares 
For  all  thai  tempts  or  troubles  round  ; 
He  craves  no  feast,  no  finery  wears. 
Nor  once  o'ersteps  his  narrow  bound. 

No  need  of  light,  though  all  be  gloom. 
To  cheer  his  eye, — that  eye  is  blind ; 
No  need  of  fire  in  this  small  room. 
He  recks  not  tempest,  rain,  or  wind. 

No  gay  companion  here  ;  no  wife 
To  gladden  home  with  true-love  smiles ; 
No  children, — from  the  woes  of  life, 
To  win  him  with  their  artless  wiles. 

Nor  joy,  nor  sorrow,  enter  here. 
Nor  flirobbing  heart,  nor  aching  limb ; 
No  sun,  no  moon,  no  stars  appear. 
And  man  and  brute  are  nought  to  him 


This  dwelling  is  a  hermit's  cave, 
With  space  alone  for  one  poor  bed ; 
This  dwelling  is  a  mortal's  grave. 
Its  sole  inhabitant  is  dead. 


THE  FALLING  LEAF. 

Were  I  a  trembling  leaf, 
On  yonder  stately  tree. 
After  a  season  gay  and  brief, 
Condemn'd  to  fade  and  flee ; 

I  should  be  loth  to  fall 
Beside  the  common  way, 
Weltering  in  mire,  and  spurn'd  by  all. 
Till  trodden  down  to  clay. 

Nor  would  I  choose  to  die 

All  on  a  bed  of  grass, 

■Wliere  thousands  of  my  kindred  lie, 

And  idly  rot  in  mass. 

Nor  would  I  like  to  spread 
My  thin  and  wither'd  face 
In  hortus  siccus,  pale  and  dead, 
A  mummy  of  my  race. 

No, — on  the  wings  of  air 
Might  I  be  left  to  fly, 
I  know  not  and  I  heed  not  where, 
A  waif  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

Or  flung  upon  the  stream, 

Curl'd  like  a  fairy-lxjat. 

As  through  the  changes  of  a  dream, 

To  the  world's  end  to  float ! 

Who  that  hath  ever  been. 

Could  bear  to  be  no  more  ? 

Yet  who  v.ould  tread  again  the  scene 

He  trod  through  life  before  ? 

On,  with  intense  desire, 

Man's  spirit  will  move  on ; 

It  seems  to  die,  yet,  like  Heaven's  fire 

It  is  not  quench'd,  but  gone. 


ON   PLANTING  A  TULIP-ROOT. 

Here  lies  a  bulb,  the  child  of  earth, 
Buried  alive  beneath  the  clod, 
Ere  long  to  spring,  by  second  birth, 
A  new  and  nobler  work  of  God. 

'Tis  said  that  microscopic  power 
Might  through  its  swaddling-folds  descry 
The  infant-image  of  the  flower, 
Too  exquisite  to  meet  the  eye. 

This,  vernal  suns  and  rains  will  swell, 
Till  from  its  dark  abode  it  peep. 
Like  Venus  rising  from  her  shell. 
Amidst  the  spring-tide  of  the  deep. 

TvA'o  shapely  leaves  will  first  unfold 
Then,  on  a  smooth,  elastic  stem. 
The  verdant  bud  shall  turn  to  gold, 
And  open  in  a  diadem. 


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MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Not  one  of  Flora's  brilliant  race 
A  form  more  perfect  can  display ; 
Art  could  not  feign  more  simple  grace, 
Nor  Nature  take  a  line  away. 

Yet,  rich  as  mom  of  many  a  hue, 

When  flushing  clouds  through  darkness  strike, 

The  tuhp's  petals  shine  in  dew, 

All  beautifiil, — but  none  alike. 

Kings,  on  their  bridal,  might  unrobe 

To  lay  their  glories  at  its  foot ; 

And  queens  their  sceptre,  crown,  and  globe, 

Exchange  for  blossom,  stalk,  and  root. 

Here  could  I  stand  and  moralize  ; 
Lady,  I  leave  that  part  to  thee  ; 
Be  thy  next  birth  in  Paradise, 
Thy  life  to  come  eternity. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  A  STAR. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

A  STAR  would  be  a  flower ; 

So  down  from  heaven  it  came, 

And  in  a  honeysuckle  bower 

Lit  up  its  little  flame. 

There  on  a  bank,  beneath  the  shade. 

By  sprays,  and  leaves,  and  blossoms  made. 

It  overlook" d  the  garden-ground, 

— A  landscape  stretching  ten  yards  round  ; 

O  what  a  change  of  place 

From  gazing  through  eternity  of  space ! 

Gay  plants  on  every  side 

Unclosed  their  lovely  blooms, 

And  scatter'd  far  and  wide 

Their  ravishing  perfumes : 

The  butterfly,  the  bee. 

And  many  an  insect  on  the  wing. 

Full  of  the  spirit  of  the  spring. 

Flew  round  and  round  in  endless  glee. 

Alighting  here,  ascending  there. 

Ranging  and  revelling  everywhere. 

Now  all  the  flowers 'were  up,  and  drest 

In  robes  of  rainbow-color'd  light ; 

The  pale  primroses  look'd  their  best, 

Peonies  blush'd  with  all  their  might ; 

Dutch  tulips  from  their  beds 

Flaunted  their  stately  heads  ; 

Auriculas,  like  belles  and  beaux, 

Glittering  with  birth-night  splendor,  rose  ; 

And  polyanthuses  display'd 

The  brilliance  of  their  gold  brocade : 

Here  hyacinths  of  heavenly  blue 

Shook  their  rich  tresses  to  the  morn, 

While  rose-buds  scarcely  shovv'd  their  hue. 

But  coyly  linger'd  on  the  thorn, 

Till  their  loved  nightingale,  who  tarried  long. 

Should  wake  ihern  into  beauty  with  his  song. 

The  violets  were  past  their  prime. 

Yet  their  departing  breath 

Was  sweeter,  in  the  blast  of  death. 

Than  all  the  lavish  fragrance  of  the  time. 


Amidst  this  gorgeous  train, 
Our  truant  star  shone  forth  in  vain ; 
Though  in  a  wreath  of  periwinkle. 
Through  whose  fine  gloom  it  strove  to  twinkle. 
It  seem'd  no  bigger  to  the  view 
Than  the  light-spangle  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
' — Astronomers  may  shake  their  polls, 
And  tell  me, — every  orb  that  rolls 
Through  heaven's  sublime  expanse 
Is  sun  or  world,  whose  speed  and  size 
Confound  the  stretch  of  mortal  eyes. 
In  Nature's  mystic  dance  : 
It  may  be  so 
For  aught  I  know, 

Or  aught  indeed  that  they  can  show ; 
Yet  till  they  prove  what  they  aver. 
From  this  plain  truth  I  will  not  stir, 
— A  star 's  a  star ! — but  when  I  think 
Of  sun  or  world,  the  star  I  sink ; 
Wherefore  in  verse,  at  least  in  mine. 
Stars,  like  themselves,  in  spite  of  fate,  shall  shine 

Now,  to  return  (for  we  have  wander'd  far) 

To  what  was  nothing  but  a  simple  star; 

— Where  all  was  jollity  around. 

No  fellowship  the  stranger  found. 

Those  lowliest  children  of  the  earth. 

That  never  leave  their  mother's  lap. 

Companions  in  their  harmless  mirth. 

Were  smiling,  blushing,  dancing  there, 

Feasting  on  dew,  and  light,  and  air. 

And  fearing  no  mishap. 

Save  from  the  hand  of  lady  fair, 

Who,  on  her  wonted  walk,  i 

Pluck'd  one  and  then  another,  ■; 

A  sister  or  a  brother. 

From  its  elastic  stalk  ; 

Happy,  no  doubt,  for  one  sharp  pang,  to  die 

On  her  sweet  bosom,  withering  in  her  eye. 

Thus  all  day  long  that  star's  hard  lot, 

While  bliss  and  beauty  ran  to  waste. 

Was  but  to  witness  on  the  spot 

Beauty  and  bliss  it  could  not  taste. 

At  length  the  sun  went  down,  and  then 

Its  faded  glory  came  again. 

With  brighter,  bolder,  purer  light. 

It  kindled  through  the  deepening  night, 

Till  the  green  bower,  so  dim  by  day, 

Glow'd  like  a  fairy-palace  with  its  beams : 

In  vain,  for  sleep  on  all  the  borders  lay. 

The  flowers  were  laughing  in  the  land  of  dreams 

Our  star,  in  melancholy  state. 

Still  sigh'd  to  find  itself  alone, 

Neglected,  cold,  and  desolate. 

Unknowing  and  unknown. 

Lifting  at  last  an  anxious  eye. 

It  saw  that  circlet  empty  in  the  sky 

Where  it  was  wont  to  roll. 

Within  a  hair-breadth  of  the  pole  : 

In  that  same  instant,  sore  amazed. 

On  the  strange  blank  all  Nature  gazed  ; 

Travellers,  bewilder'd  for  their  guide. 

In  glens  and  forests  lost  their  way  ; 

And  ships,  on  ocean's  trackless  tide, 

Went  fearfully  astray. 

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mSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


17£> 


The  star,  now  wiser  fi>r  its  folly,  knew 

Its  duty,  dignity,  and  bliss  at  home ; 

So  up  to  heaven  again  it  flew, 

Resolved  no  more  to  roam. 

One  hint  the  humble  bard  may  send 

To  her  for  whom  these  lines  are  penn'd ; 

— O  may  it  be  enough  for  her 

To  shine  in  her  own  character ! 

O  may  she  be  content  to  grace. 

On  earth,  in  heaven,  her  proper  place ! 


A  WORD  ^VITH  MYSELF. 


gtanzns  written  for  "The  Chimney-Sweeper's  Friend,"  a  work 
edited  by  the  Author,  and  dedicated,  by  permission,  to  His 
most  gracious  Majesty  George  IV. 


I  KNOW  they  scorn  the  climbing  boy. 
The  gay,  the  selfish,  and  the  proud ; 
I  know  his  villanous  employ 
Is  mockery  with  the  thoughtless  crowd. 

So  be  it ;  brand  with  every  name 
Of  burning  infamy  his  art ; 
But  let  his  country  bear  the  shame, 
And  feel  the  iron  at  her  heart. 

I  cannot  coldly  pass  him  by, 

Stript,  wounded,  left  by  thieves  half  dead ; 

Nor  see  an  infant  Lazarus  lie 

At  rich  men's  gates  imploring  bread. 

A  frame  as  sensitive  as  mine. 
Limbs  moulded  in  a  kindred  form, 
A  soul  degraded,  yet  divine, 
Endear  to  me  my  brother-worm. 

He  was  my  equal  at  his  birth, 

A  naked,  helpless,  weeping  child ; 

— And  such  are  bom  to  thrones  on  earth ; 

On  such  hath  every  mother  smiled. 

My  equal  he  will  be  again, 
Down  in  that  cold  oblivious  gloom. 
Where  all  the  prostrate  ranks  of  men 
Crowd,  without  fellowship,  the  tomb. 

My  equal  in  the  judgment-day, 
He  shall  stand  up  before  the  throne, 
When  every  veil  is  rent  away. 
And  good  and  evil  only  known. 

And  is  he  not  mine  equal  now? 
Ami  less  fall'n  from  God  and  truth  1 
Though  ''wretch''  be  written  on  his  brow, 
And  leprosy  consume  his  youth. 

If  holy  Nature  yet  have  laws 
Binding  on  man,  of  woman  born, 
In  her  own  court  I  '11  plead  his  cause, 
Arrest  the  doom,  or  share  the  scorn. 

Yes,  let  the  scorn,  that  haunts  his  course, 
Turn  on  me  like  a  trodden  snake, 
And  hiss,  and  sting  me  with  remorse. 
If  I  the  fatherless  forsake ! 


INSCRIPTION 

UNDER  THE  PICTURE  OF  AN  .\GED  NEGRO-WOMAN 

Art  thou  a  woman  ? — so  am  I ;  and  all 
That  woman  can  be,  I  have  been,  or  am ; 
A  daughter,  sister,  consort,  mother,  widow. 
Whiche'er  of  these  thou  art,  O  be  the  friend 
Of  one  who  is  what  thou  canst  never  be! 
Look  on  thyself,  thy  kindred,  home  and  country, 
Then  fall  upon  thy  knees,  and  cry,  "  Thank  God, 
An  English  woman  cannot  be  a  slave  ! " 

Art  thou  a  man  ? — Oh !  I  have  known,  have  loved 
And  lost,  all  that  to  woman  man  can  be  ; 
A  father,  brother,  husband,  son,  who  shared 
My  bliss  in  freedom,  and  my  woe  in  bondage. 
— A  childless  widow  now,  a  friendless  slave. 
What  shall  I  ask  of  thee,  since  I  have  nought 
To  lose  but  life's  sad  burthen ;  nought  to  gain 
But  heaven's  repose  ? — these  are  beyond  thy  power, 
Me  thou  canst  neither  wrong  nor  help; — what  then? 
Go  to  the  bosom  of  thy  family. 
Gather  thy  little  children  round  thy  knees. 
Gaze  on  their  innocence  ;  their  clear,  full  eyes. 
All  fix'd  on  thine ;  and  in  their  mother,  mark 
The  loveliest  look  that  woman's  face  can  wear, 
Her  look  of  love,  beholding  them  and  thee : 
Then,  at  the  altar  of  your  household  joys, 
Vow  one  by  one,  vow  all  together,  vow 
With  heart  and  voice,  eternal  enmity 
Against  oppression  by  your  brethren's  hands  ; 
Till  man  nor  woman  under  Britain's  laws. 
Nor  son  nor  daughter  born  within  her  empire, 
Shall  buy,  or  sell,  or  hold,  or  be,  a  slave. 


THOUGHTS  AND  IMAGES. 


Come  like  shadows,  so  depart. — Macbeth. 


The  Diamond,  in  its  native  bed, 
Hid  like  a  buried  star  may  lie, 
Where  foot  of  man  must  never  tread, 
Seen  only  by  its  Maker's  eye  : 
And  though  imbued  with  beams  to  grace 
His  fairest  work  in  woman's  face. 
Darkling,  its  fire  may  fill  the  void. 
Where  fix'd  at  first  in  solid  night ; 
Nor,  till  the  world  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Sparkle  one  moment  into  light. 

The  plant,  up-springing  from  the  seed. 
Expands  into  a  perfect  flower  ; 
The  virgin-daughter  of  the  mead, 
Woo'd  by  the  sun,  the  wind,  the  shower 
In  loveliness  beyond  compare. 
It  toils  not,  spins  not,  knows  no  care, 
Train'd  by  the  secret  hand,  that  brings 
All  beauty  out  of  waste  and  rude. 
It  blooms  its  season,  dies,  and  flings 
Its  germs  abroad  in  solitude. 

Almighty  skill,  in  ocean's  caves, 
Lends  the  light  Nautilus  a  lorm 
To  tilt  along  the  Atlantic  waves, 
Fearless  of  rock,  or  .shoal,  or  storm  ; 

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But,  slioiild  a  breath  of  danger  sound, 
With  sails  quick-furl'd  it  dives  profound, 
And  far  beneath  the  tempest's  path, 
In  coral  grots,  defies  the  foe, 
That  never  brake,  in  heaviest  wrath, 
The  sabbath  of  the  deep  below. 

Up  from  his  dream,  on  twinkling  wings. 
The  Sky-lark  soars  amid  the  dawn ; 
Yet,  while  in  Paradise  he  sings. 
Looks  down  upon  the  quiet  lawn. 
Where  flutters,  in  his  little  nest, 
More  love  than  music  e'er  express'd : 
Then,  though  the  nightingale  may  thrill 
The  soul  with  keener  ecstacy. 
The  merry  bird  of  morn  can  fill 
All  Nature's  bosom  with  his  glee. 

The  Elephant,  embower'd  in  woods, 
Coeval  with  their  trees  might  seem. 
As  though  he  drank  from  Indian  floods 
Life  in  a  renovating  stream  ; 
Ages  o'er  him  have  come  and  fled, 
'Midst  generations  of  the  dead. 
His  bulk  survives,  to  feed  and  range, 
Where  ranged  and  fed  of  old  his  sires ; 
Nor  knows  advancement,  lapse,  or  change. 
Beyond  their  walks,  till  he  expires. 

Gem,  flower,  and  fish,  the  bird,  the  brute. 
Of  every  kind  occult  or  known, 
(,Each  exquisitely  forra'd  to  suit 
Its  humble  lot,  and  that  alone), 
Through  ocean,  earth,  and  air,  fulfil. 
Unconsciously,  their  Maker's  will, 
AVho  gave,  without  their  toil  or  thought. 
Strength,  beauty,  instinct,  courage,  speed  ; 
While  through  the  whole  his  pleasure  wrought 
Whate'er  his  wisdom  had  decreed. 

But  Man,  the  masterpiece  of  God, 
Man,  in  his  Maker's  image  framed, — 
Though  kindred  to  the  valley's  clod. 
Lord  of  this  low  creation  named, — 
In  naked  helplessness  appears. 
Child  of  a  thousand  griefs  and  fears : 
To  labor,  pain,  and  trouble  born. 
Weapon,  nor  wing,  nor  sleight  hath  he  ; 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  he  brings  his  morn, 
And  is  a  king  from  infancy. 

For  him  no  destiny  hath  bound 
To  do  what  others  did  before, 
Pace  the  same  dull  perennial  round, 
And  be  a  man,  and  be  no  more : 
A  man  ? — a  self-vvill'd  piece  of  earth. 
Just  as  the  lion  is,  by  birth; 
To  hunt  his  prey,  to  wake,  to  sleep, 
His  father's  joys  and  sorrows  share, 
His  niche  in  Nature's  temple  keep, 
And  leave  his  likeness  in  his  heir ! — 

No:  infinite  the  shades  between 
The  motley  millions  of  our  race  ; 
No  two  the  changing  moon  hath  seen 
Alike  in  purpose,  or  in  face  ; 


Yet  all  aspire  beyond  their  fate ; 

The  last,  the  meanest  would  be  great; 

The  mighty  future  fills  the  mind, 

That  pants  for  more  than  earth  can  give 

Man,  to  this  narrow  sphere  confined, 

Dies  when  he  but  begins  to  live. 

Oh !  if  there  be  no  world  on  high 
To  yield  his  powers  unfetter'd  scope  ; 
If  man  be  only  born  to  die. 
Whence  this  inheritance  of  hope  ? 
Wherefore  to  him  alone  were  lent 
Riches  that  never  can  be  spent? 
Enough,  not  more,  to  all  the  rest. 
For  life  and  happiness,  was  given  ; 
To  man,  mysteriously  unblest. 
Too  much  for  any  state  but  heaven. 

It  is  not  thus: — it  cannot  be, 
That  one  so  gloriously  endow'd 
With  views  that  reach  eternity. 
Should  shine  and  vanish  like  a  cloud : 
Is  there  a  God  ? — all  Nature  shows 
There  is, — and  yet  no  mortal  knows : 
The  mind  that  could  this  truth  conceive, 
Which  brute  sensation  never  taught. 
No  longer  to  the  dust  would  cleave, 
But  grow  immortal  with  the  thought, 


VERSES  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

THE  LATE  RICHARD  REYNOLDS, 

Member  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  Founder  (f 
the  Samaritan  Society  of  Bristol. 

I. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHTEOUS. 

This  place  is  holy  ground  ; 

World,  with  thy  cares,  away  ! 
Silence  and  darkness  reign  around. 
But,  lo!  the  break  of  day: 
What  >bright  and  sudden  dawn  appears, 
To  shine  upon  this  scene  of  tears  ? 

'T  is  not  the  morning-light. 

That  wakes  the  lark  to  sing ; 
'T  is  not  a  meteor  of  the  night. 
Nor  track  of  angel's  wing: 
It  is  an  uncreated  beam. 
Like  that  which  shone  on  Jacob's  dream. 

Eternity  and  Time 

Met  for  a  moment  here  ; 
From  earth  to  heaven,  a  scale  sublime 
Rested  on  either  sphere. 
Whose  steps  a  saintly  figure  trod, 
By  Death's  cold^and  led  home  to  God. 

He  landed  in  our  view, 

'Midst  flaming  hosts  above  ; 
Whose  ranks  stood  silent,  while  he  drew 
Nigh  to  the  throne  of  love, 
And  meekly  took  the  lowest  seat, 
Yet  nearest  his  Redeemer's  feet. 

360 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEIVrS. 


177 


j^TThriird  with  ecstatic  awe, 
Entranced  our  spirits  fell, 
And  saw — 3'et  wist  not  what  they  saw ; 
And  heard — no  tongue  can  tell 
What  sounds  the  ear  of  rapture  caught, 
What  glory  fiU'd  the  eye  of  thought. 

Thus  far  above  the  pole, 

On  wings  of  mounting  fire, 
Faith  may  pursue  the  enfranchised  .soul, 
But  soon  her  pinions  tire  ; 
It  is  not  given  to  mortal  man 
Eternal  mysteries  to  scan. 

— Behold  the  bed  of  death  ; 
This  pale  and  lovely  clay  ; 
Heard  ye  the  sob  of  parting  breath  ? 
JMark'd  ye  the  eye's  last  ray  ? 
IN'o ; — ^life  so  sweetly  ceased  lo  be, 
It  lapsed  in  immortality. 

Could  tears  revive  the  dead, 

Rivers  should  swell  our  eyes  ; 
Could  sighs  recall  the  spirit  fled, 
We  would  not  quench  our  sighs, 
rill  love  relumed  this  alter'd  mien, 
And  all  the  embodied  soul  were  seen. 

Bury  the  dead  ; — and  weep 
In  stillness  o'er  the  loss  ; 
Bury  the  dead ; — in  Christ  tJiey  sleep, 
Who  bore  on  earth  his  cross. 
And  from  the  grave  their  dust  shall  rise. 
In  his  own  image  to  the  skies. 

II. 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  JUST. 

Strike  a  louder,  loftier  lyre ! 

Bolder,  sweeter  strains  employ ; 
Wake,  Remembrance  I — and  inspire 

Sorrow  with  the  song  of  joy. 

Who  was  He,  for  whom  our  tears 
Flow'd,  and  will  not  cease  to  flow  ? 

— Full  of  honors  and  of  years. 
In  the  dust  his  head  lies  low. 

Yet,  resurgent  from  the  dust. 
Springs  aloft  his  mighty  name  ; 

For  the  memory  of  the  Just 
Lives  in  everlasting  fame. 

He  was  One,  whose  open  face 

Did  his  inmost  heart  reveal ; 
One,  who  wore  with  meekest  grace. 

On  his  forehead.  Heaven's  broad  seal. 

Kindness  all  his  looks  express'd, 

Charity  was  every  word\- 
Him  the  eye  beheld,  and  bless'd  ; 

And  the  ear  rejoiced  that  heard. 

Like  a  patriarchal  sage 

Holy,  humble,  courteous,  mild, 

He  could  blend  the  awe  of  age 
With  the  sweetness  of  a  child. 

46  2F 


As  a  cedar  of  the  Lord, 

On  the  height  of  Lebanon, 
Shade  and  shelter  doth  aiford. 

From  the  tempest  and  the  sun : — 

WTiile  in  green  luxuriant  prime, 
Fragrant  airs  its  boughs  diflTuse, 

From  its  locks  it  shakes  sublime. 
O'er  the  hills,  the  morning  dews. 

Thus  he  flourish'd,  tall  and  strong, 
Glorious  in  perennial  health  ; 

Thus  he  scatter'd,  late  and  long, 
All  his  plenitude  of  wealth  : 

Wealth,  which  prodigals  had  deem'd 
Worth  the  soul's  uncounted  cost ; 

Wealth,  which  misers  had  esteem'd 

Cheap,  though  Heaven  itself  were  lost. 

This,  with  free  unsparing  hand. 
To  the  poorest  child  of  need, 

This  he  threw  around  the  land. 
Like  the  sower's  precious  seed. 

In  the  world's  great  harvest-day, 
Every  grain  on  every  ground, 

Stony,  thorny,  by  the  way. 

Shall  an  hundred-fold  be  found. 

Yet  like  noon's  refulgent  blaze. 

Though  he  shone  from  east  to  west. 

Far  withdrawn  from  public  gaze, 
Secret  goodness  pleased  him  best 

As  the  sun,  retired  from  sight, 

Through  the  purple  evening  gleams. 

Or,  unrisen,  clothes  the  night 
In  the  morning's  golden  bepms  : 

Thus  beneath  the  horizon  dim 
He  would  hide  his  radiant  head. 

And  on  eyes  that  saw  not  him 
Light  and  consolation  shed. 

Oft  his  silent  spirit  went. 

Like  an  angel  from  the  throne. 

On  benign  commissions  bent, 
In  the  fear  of  God  alone. 

Then  the  -widow's  heart  would  sing. 
As  she  turn'd  her  wheel,  for  joy  ; 

Then  the  bliss  of  hope  would  spring 
On  the  outcast  orphan  boy. 

To  the  blind,  the  deaf,  the  lame, 

To  the  ignorant  and  vile, 
Stranger,  captive,  slave,  he  came 

With  a  W'elcome  and  a  smile. 

Help  to  all  he  did  dispense, 

Gold,  instruction,  raiment,  food  ; 

Like  the  gifts  of  Providence, 
To  the  evil  and  the  good. 

Deeds  of  mercy,  deeds  unknowTi, 

Shall  eternity  record, 
WTiich  he  durst  not  call  his  own. 

For  he  did  them  to  the  Lord. 

361 


178 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  the  Earth  puts  forth  her  flowers, 
Heaven-ward  breathing  from  below  ; 

As  the  clouds  descend  in  showers, 
When  the  southern  breezes  blow ; 

Thus  his  renovated  mind. 

Warm  with  pure  celestial  love, 

Shed  its  influence  on  mankind, 
While  its  hopes  aspired  above. 

Full  of  faith  at  length  he  died. 
And  victorious  in  the  race. 

Won  the  crown  for  which  he  vied, 
— Not  of  merit,  but  of  grace. 


III. 


A  GOOD  MAN'S  MONUMENT. 

The  pyre,  that  burns  the  aged  Bramin's  bones. 
Runs  cold  in  blood,  and  issues  living  groans, 
When  the  whole  Haram  with  the  husband  dies, 
And  demons  dance  around  the  sacrifice. 

In  savage  realms,  when  tyrants  yield  their  breath. 
Herds,  flocks,  and  slaves,  attend  their  lord  in  death : 
Arms,  chariots,  carcasses,  a  horrid  heap, 
Rust  at  his  side,  or  share  his  mouldering  sleep. 

When  heroes  fall  triumphant  on  the  plain  ; 
For  millions  conquer'd,  and  ten  thousands  slain, 
For  cities  levell'd,  kingdoms  drench'd  in  blood. 
Navies  annihilated  on  the  flood  ; 
— The  pageantry  of  public  grief  requires 
The  splendid  homage  of  heroic  lyres ; 
And  genius  moulds  impassion'd  brass  to  breathe 
The  deathless  spirit  of  the  dust  beneath. 
Calls  marble  honor  from  its  cavern'd  bed, 
And  bids  it  live — the  proxy  of  the  dead. 

Reynolds  expires,  a  nobler  chief  than  these  ; 
No  blood  of  widows  stains  his  obsequies ; 
But  widows'  tears,  in  sad  bereavement,  fall. 
And  foundling  voices  on  their  father  call : 
No  slaves,  no  hecatombs,  his  relics  crave. 
To  gorge  the  worm,  and  crowd  his  quiet  grave  ; 
But  sweet  repose  his  slumbering  ashes  find, 
As  if  in  Salem's  sepulchre  enshrined ; 
And  watching  angels  waited  for  the  day, 
When  Christ  should  bid  them  roll  the  stone  away. 

Not  in  the  fiery  hurricane  of  strife, 
'Midst  slaughter'd  legions,  he  resign'd  his  life  ; 
But  peaceful  as  the  twilight's  parting  ray. 
His  spirit  vanish'd  from  its  house  of  clay. 
And  left  on  kindred  soals  such  power  imprest, 
They  seem'd  with  him  to  enter  into  rest. 
Hence  no  vain  pomp,  his  glory  to  prolong. 
No  airy  immortality  of  song  ; 
No  sculptured  imagery,  of  bronze  or  stone. 
To  make  his  lineaments  for  ever  known, 
Reynolds  requires  : — his  labors,  merits,  name. 
Demand  a  monument  of  surer  fame ; 
Not  to  record  and  praise  his  virtues  past, 
But  show  them  living,  while  the  world  shall  last ; 


Not  to  bewail  one  Reynolds  snatch'd  from  earth. 
But  give,  in  every  age,  a  Reynolds  birth ; 
In  every  age  a  Reynolds;  born  to  stand 
A  prince  among  the  worthies  of  the  land, 
By  Nature's  title,  written  in  his  face : 
More  than  a  Prince — a  sinner  saved  by  grace, 
Prompt  at  his  meek  and  lowly  Master's  call 
To  prove  himself  the  minister  of  all. 

Bristol  !  to  thee  the  eye  of  Albion  turns ; 
At  thought  of  thee,  thy  country's  spirit  burns ; 
For  in  thy  walls,  as  on  her  dearest  ground. 
Are  "British  minds  and  British  manners"  found : 
And,  'midst  the  wealth  which  Avon's  waters  pour. 
From  every  clime,  on  thy  commercial  shore. 
Thou  hast  a  native  mine  of  worth  untold ; 
Thine  heart  is  not  encased  in  rigid  gold, 
Wither'd  to  murnmy,  steel'd  against  distress ; 
No — free  as  Severn's  waves,  that  spring  to  bless 
Their  parent  hills,  but  as  they  roll  expand 
In  argent  beauty  through  a  lovelier  land. 
And  widening,  brightening  to  the  western  sun. 
In  floods  of  glory  through  thy  channel  run ; 
Thence,  mingling  with  the  boundless  tide,  are  hurl'd 
In  Ocean's  chariot  round  the  utmost  world : 
Thus  flow  thine  heart-streams,  warm  and  unconfined. 
At  home,  abroad,  to  woe  of  every  kind. 
Worthy  wert  thou  of  Reynolds  ; — worthy  he 
To  rank  the  first  of  Britons  even  in  thee. 
Reynolds  is  dead ; — thy  lap  receives  his  dust 
Until  the  resurrection  of  the  just : 
Reynolds  is  dead ;  but  while  thy  rivers  roll, 
Immortal  in  thy  bosom  live  his  soul ! 

Go,  build  his  monument : — and  let  it  be 
Firm  as  the  land,  but  open  as  the  sea. 
Low  in  his  grave  the  strong  foundations  lie, 
Yet  be  the  dome  expansive  as  the  sky. 
On  crystal  pillars  resting  from  above. 
Its  sole  supporters — works  of  faith  and  love  ; 
So  clear,  so  pure,  that  to  the  keenest  sight, 
They  cast  no  shadow  :  all  within  be  light  : 
No  walls  divide  the  area,  nor  inclose; 
Charter  the  whole  to  every  wind  that  blov^s ; 
Then  rage  the  tempest,  flash  the  lightnings  blue, 
And  thunders  roll, — they  pass  unharming  through. 

One  simple  altar  in  the  midst  be  placed, 
With  this,  and  only  this,  inscription  graced. 
The  song  of  angels  at  Immanuel's  birth, 
"  Glory  to  God !  good-will,  and  peace  on  earth." 
There  be  thy  duteous  sons  a  tribe  of  priests. 
Not  oflfering  incense,  nor  the  blood  of  beasts. 
But  with  their  gifts  upon  that  altar  spread  ; 
— Health  to  the  sick,  and  to  the  hungry  bread. 
Beneficence  to  all,  their  hands  shall  deal, 
With  Reynolds'  single  eye  and  hallow'd  zeal 
Pain,  want,  misfortune,  thither  shall  repair ; 
Folly  and  vice  reclaim'd  shall  worship  there 
The  God  of  him — in  whose  transcendent  mmd 
Stood  such  a  temple,  free  to  all  mankind  : 
Thy  God,  thrice-honor'd  city!  bids  thee  raise 
That  fallen  temple,  to  the  end  of  days : 
Obey  his  voice  ;  fulfil  thine  high  intent ; 
— Yea,  be  thyself  the  Good  Man's  Monument. 

362 


li 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


179 


THE  CLIMBING  BOY'S  SOLILOQUIES. 


The  three  following  Pieces  were  first  published  in  The  Climb- 
ing Boy's  Album,  1824. 


I. 

THE  COMPLAINT. 

Who  loves  the  climbing-boy  ? — who  cares 

If  well  or  ill  I  be  ? 
Is  there  a  living  soul  that  shares 
A  thought  or  wish  with  me  ? 

I  've  had  no  parents  since  my  birth, 

Brothers  and  sisters  none  ; 
Ah !  what  to  me  is  all  this  earth, 

Where  I  am  only  one  ? 

I  wake  and  see  the  morning  shine, 

And  all  around  me  gay ; 
But  nothing  I  behold  is  mine, 

No,  not  the  light  of  day  : — 

No !  not  the  very  breath  I  draw ; 

These  limbs  are  not  my  own  ; 
A  master  calls  me  his  by  law : 

My  griefs  are  mine  alone  : 

Ah !  these  they  could  not  make  him  feel- 
Would  they  themselves  had  felt ! 

Who  bound  me  to  that  man  of  steel, 
Whom  mercy  cannot  melt. 

Yet  not  for  wealth  or  ease  I  sigh, 

All  are  not  rich  and  great ; 
Many  may  be  as  poor  as  I, 

But  none  so  desolate. 

For  all  I  know  have  kin  and  kind, 
Some  home,  some  hope,  some  joy  ; 

But  these  I  must  not  look  to  find — 
Who  knows  the  climbing-boy  ? 

The  world  has  not  a  place  of  rest 

For  outcast  so  forlorn  ; 
Twas  all  bespoken,  all  possest. 

Long  before  I  was  bom. 

Affection,  too,  life's  sweetest  cup, 
Goes  round  from  hand  to  hand  ; 

But  I  am  never  ask'd  to  sup — 
Out  of  the  ring  I  stand. 

If  kindness  beats  within  my  heart, 

What  heart  will  beat  again  1 
I  coax  the  dogs,  they  snarl  and  start ; 

Brutes  are  as  bad  as  men. 

The  beggar's  child  may  rise  above 

The  misery  of  his  lot ; 
The  gipsy  may  be  loved,  and  love ; 

But  I — but  I  must  not. 

Hard  fare,  cold  lodgings,  cruel  toil, 
Youth,  health,  and  strength,  consume : 

What  tree  could  thrive  in  such  a  soil  ? 
What  flower  so  scathed  could  bloom  ? 


Should  I  outgrow  this  crippling  work. 
How  shall  my  bread  be  sought? 

Must  I  to  other  lads  turn  Turk, 
And  teach  what  I  am  taught  ? 

O,  might  I  roam  wth  flocks  and  herds 

In  fellowship  along ! 
0,  were  I  one  among  the  birds. 

Ail  wing,  and  life,  and  song ! 

Free  with  the  fishes  might  I  dwell, 

DowTi  in  the  quiet  sea ! 
The  snail  in  his  cob-castle  shell — 

The  snail 's  a  king  to  me ! 

For  out  he  glides  in  April  showers. 
Lies  snug  when  storms  prevail ; 

He  feeds  on  fruit,  he  sleeps  on  flowers — 
I  wish  I  was  a  snail. 

No,  never ;  do  the  worst  they  can, 

I  may  be  happy  still ; 
For  I  was  born  to  be  a  man. 

And  if  I  Uve  I  will. 


II. 
THE  DREAM. 

I  DREAMT ;  but  what  care  I  for  dreams  ? 

And  yet  I  tremble  too  : 
It  look'd  so  like  the  truth,  it  seems 

As  if  it  would  come  true. 

I  dreamt  that,  long  ere  peep  of  day, 

I  left  my  cold  straw  bed, 
And  o'er  a  common  far  away, 

As  if  I  flew,  I  fled. 

The  tempest  hurried  me  behind, 

Like  a  mill-stream  along  ; 
I  could  have  lean'd  against  the  wind. 

It  was  so  deadly  strong. 

The  snow — I  never  saw  such  snow — 

Raged  like  the  sea  all  round. 
Tossing  and  tumbling  to  and  fro  ; 

I  thought  I  must  be  drown'd. 

Now  up,  now  down,  with  main  and  might 
I  plunged  through  drift  and  stour ; 

Nothing,  no,  nothing  balk'd  my  flight, 
I  had  a  giant's  power. 

Till  suddenly  the  storm  stood  still. 

Flat  lay  the  snow  beneath  ; 
I  curdled  to  an  icicle, 

I  could  not  stir — not  breathe. 

My  master  found  me  rooted  there ; 

He  flogg'd  me  back  to  sense, 
Then  pluck'd  me  up,  and  by  the  hair, 

Sheer  over  ditch  and  fence. 

He  dragg'd,  and  dragg'd  me  on, 

For  many  and  many  a  mile : 
At  a  grand  house  he  stopp'd  anon — 

It  was  a  famous  pfle. 

363 


180 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I 


Up  to  the  moon  it  seem'd  to  rise, 

Broad  as  the  earth  to  stand  ; 
The  building  darken'd  half  the  skies, 

Its  shadow  half  the  land. 

All  round  was  still — as  still  as  death; 

I,  shivering,  chattering,  stood  ; 
And  felt  the  coming,  going  breath, 

The  tingling,  freezing  blood. 

Soon,  at  my  master's  rap,  rap,  rap. 

The  door  wide  open  flew : 
In  went  we  ; — with  a  thunder-clap 

Again  the  door  bang'd  to. 

I  trembled,  as  I  've  felt  a  bird 

Tremble  within  my  fist  ; 
For  none  I  saw,  and  none  I  heard, 

But  all  was  lone  and  whist. 

The  moonshine  through  the  windows  show'd 
Long  stripes  of  light  and  gloom ; 

The  carpet  with  all  colors  glow'd, — 
Some  men  stood  round  the  room : 

Fair  pictures  in  their  golden  frames, 

And  looking-glasses  bright; 
Fine  things,  I  cannot  tell  their  names, 

Dazed  and  bewitch'd  me  quite- 
Master  soon  tliwack'd  them  out  my  head — 

The  chimney  must  be  swept ! 
Yet  in  the  grate  the  coals  were  red : 

I  stamp'd,  and  scream'd^  and  wepL 

I  kneel'd,  I  kiss'd  his  feet,  I  pray'd ; 

For  then — which  shows  I  dreamt — 
Methought  I  ne'er  before  had  made 

The  terrible  attempt : 

But,  as  a  butcher  lifts  the  lamb 

That  struggles  for  its  life 
(Far  from  the  ramping,  bleating  dam) 

Beneath  his  desperate  knife, 

With  his  two  iron  hands  he  grasp'd 

And  hoisted  me  aloof; 
His  naked  neck  in  vain  I  clasp'd, 

The  man  was  pitj-'-proof 

So  forth  he  swung  me  through  the  space 

Above  the  smouldering  fire  ; 
I  never  can  forget  his  face, 

Nor  his  gruff  growl,  "  Go  higher ! " 

As  if  I  climb'd  a  steep  house-side, 

Or  scaled  a  dark  draw-well. 
The  horrid  opening  was  so  wide, 

I  had  no  hold— I  fell; 

Fell  on  the  embers,  all  my  length. 

But  scarcely  felt  their  he^t. 
When,  with  a  madman's  rage  and  strength, 
I  started  on  my  feet. 

And,  ere  I  well  knew  wjiat  I  did, 

Had  clear'd  the  broader  vent ; 
From  his  wild  vengeance  to  be  hid, 

I  cared  not  where  I  went. 


The  passage  narrow'd  as  I  drew 

Limb  after  limb  by  force. 
Working  and  worming,  like  a  screw. 

My  hard,  slow,  up-hill  couree. 

Rougher  than  harrow-teeth  within. 

Sharp  lime  and  jagged  sione 
Stripp'd  my  few  garments,  gored  the  skin, 

And  grided  to  the  bone. 

Gall'd,  wounded,  bleeding,  ill  at  ease, 

Still  I  was  stout  at  heart ; 
Head,  shoulders,  elbows,  hands,  feet,  knees, 

All  play'd  a  stirring  part 

I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  climb'd  in  vain- 
No  light  at  top  appear'd  ; 

No  end  to  darkness,  toil,  and  pain. 
While  worse  and  worse  I  fear'd- 

I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  had  to  climb 

Yet  more  and  more  astray  ; 
A  hundred  years  I  thought  the  time, 

A  thousand  miles  the  way. 

Strength  left  me,  and  breath  fail'd  at  last, — 

Then  had  I  headlong-  dropp'd. 
But  the  strait  funnel  wedged  me  fast ; 

So  there  dead-iock'd  I  stopp'd. 

I  groan'd,  I  gasp'd,  to  shriek  I  tried. 
No  sound  came  from  my  breast ; 

There  was  a  weight  on  every  side. 
As  if  a  stone-delf  press'd. 

Yet  still  my  brain  kept  beating  on 
Through  night-mares  of  all  shapes , 

Foul  fiends,  no  sooner  come  than  gone. 
Dragons,  and  wolves,  and  apes. 

They  gnash'd  on  me  with  bloody  jaws, 
Chatter'd,  and  howl'd,  and  hiss'd ; 

They  clutch'd  me  with  their  cat-like  claws 
While  off  they  whirl'd  in  misL 

Till,  like  a  lamp-flame,  blown  away, 

My  soul  went  out  in  gloom ; 
Thought  ceased,  and  dead-alive  I  lay, 

Shut  up  in  that  black  tomb. 

O  sweetly  on  the  mother's  lap 

Her  pretty  baby  hes, 
And  breathes  so  freely  in  his  nap, 

She  can't  take  off  her  eyes. 

Ah!  thinks  she  then — ah,  thinks  she  not' 

How  soon  the  time  may  be. 
When  all  her  love  will  be  forgot. 

And  he  a  wretch  like  me  ? 

She  in  her  grave  at  rest  may  lie. 

And  daisies  speck  the  sod, 
Nor  see  him  bleed,  nor  hear  him  cry 

Beneath  a  ruffian's  rod. 

No  mother's  lap  was  the7i  my  bed, 

O'er  me  no  m.other  smiled  ; 
No  mother's  arm  went  round  my  head, 

— Am  I  no  mother's  child  ? 

364 


« 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


181 


Life,  on  a  sudden,  ran  me  through ! 

The  moon  was  waning  in  the  west. 

Light,  Hght,  all  round  me  blazed, 

The  clouds  were  golden  red ; 

Red  flames  rush'd  roaring  up  the  flue — 

The  lark,  a  mile  above  his  nest, 

Flames  by  my  master  raised. 

Was  cheering  o'er  my  head. 

I  heard  his  voice,  and  tenfold  might 

The  stars  had  vanish'd,  all  but  one. 

Bolted  through  every  limb ; 

The  darling  of  the  sky. 

I  saw  his  face,  and  shot  upright ; 

That  glitter'd  like  a  tiny  sun, 

Brick  walls  made  way  from  him. 

No  bigger  than  my  eye. 

Swift  as  a  squirrel  seeks  the  bough 

I  look'd  at  this — I  thought  it  smiled, 

Where  he  may  turn  and  look 

Which  made  me  feel  so  glad. 

Down  on  the  schoolboy,  chap-fallen  now. 

That  I  became  another  child, 

My  ready  flight  I  took. 

And  not  the  climbing-lad : 

The  fire  was  quickly  quench'd  beneath, 

A  child  as  fair  as  you  may  see, 

Blue  hght  above  me  glanced  ; 

Whom  soot  hath  never  soil'd  ; 

And  air,  sweet  air,  I'gan  to  breathe, 

As  rosy-cheek'd  as  I  might  be, 

The  blood  within  me  danced. 

If  I  had  not  been  spoil'd. 

I  climb'd,  and  climb'd,  and  climb'd  away, 

Wings,  of  themselves,  about  me  grew. 

Till  on  the  top  I  stood. 

And,  free  as  morning-light, 

And  saw  the  glorious  dawn  of  day 

Up  to  that  single  star  I  flew, 

Come  down  on  field  and  flood. 

So  beautiful  and  bright. 

0  me  !  a  moment  of  such  joy 

Through  the  blue  heaven  I  stretch'd  my  hand 

I  never  knew  before  ; 

To  touch  its  beams — it  broke 

Right  happy  was  the  climbing-boy, 

Like  a  sea-bubble  on  the  sand  ; 

One  moment — but  no  more. 

Then  all  fell  dark.— I  woke. 

Sick,  sick,  I  tum'd, — the  world  ran  round, 

The  stone  I  stood  on  broke. 

m. 

And  plumb  I  toppled  to  the  ground, 

— Like  a  scared  owl,  I  woke. 

EASTER  MONDAY  AT  SHEFFIELD.' 

I  woke,  but  slept  again,  and  dream'd 

Yes,  there  are  some  that  think  of  me ; 

The  self-same  things  anew  : 

The  blessing  on  their  heads !  I  say ; 

The  storm,  the  snow,  the  building,  seem'd 

May  all  their  lives  as  happy  be 

All  true,  as  day-light 's  true. 

As  mine  has  been  with  thera  to-day ! 

But,  when  I  tumbled  from  the  top, 
The  world  itself  had  flov^•n ; 

When  I  was  sold  from  Lincolnshire 

There  was  no  ground  on  which  to  drop, 
'T  was  emptiness  alone. 

To  this  good  town,  I  heard  a  noise 
What  merry-making  would  be  here. 
At  Easter-tide,  for  climbing-boys. 

On  winter  nights  I  've  seen  a  star 

Leap  headlong  from  the  sky ; 

'T  was  strange,  because  where  I  had  been 

I've  watch'd  the  hghtning  from  afar 

The  better  people  cared  no  more 

Flash  out  of  heaven,  and  die. 

For  such  as  me,  than  had  they  seen 

A  young  crab  crawlmg  on  their  shore. 

So — but  in  darkness — so  I  fell 

Through  nothing  to  no  place, 

Well,  Easter  came ; — in  all  the  land 

Until  I  saw  the  flames  of  hell 

Was  e'er  a  'prentice  lad  so  fine ! 

Shoot  upward  to  my  face. 

A  bran-new  suit,  at  second-hand. 

Caps,  shoes,  and  stockings,  all  were  mine. 

Down,  down,  as  with  a  mill-stone  weight, 

I  plunged  right  through  their  smoke  : 

The  coat  was  green,  the  waistcoat  red, 

To  cry  for  mercy  't  was  too  late — 

The  breeches  leather,  white  and  clean  : 

They  seized  me — I  awoke  : 

I  thought  I  must  go  off  my  head. 

Woke,  slept,  and  dream'd  the  hke  again 

I  could  have  jump'd  out  of  my  skin. 

The  third  lime,  through  and  through. 

All  Sunday  through  the  streets  I  stroll'd 

Except  the  winding  up ; — ah !  then 

Fierce  as  a  turkey-cock,  to  see 

I  wish  it  had  been  true. 

How  all  the  people,  young  and  old. 

For  when  I  climb'd  into  the  air. 
Spring-breezes  flapt  me  round ; 

At  least  I  thought  so,  look'd  at  me. 

Green  hills,  and  dales,  and  woods  were  there, 

1  There  are  some  local  allusions  in  this  part,  sufficiently 

And  May-flowers  on  the  ground. 

intelligible  on  the  spot,  but  not  worth  explaining  here. 

2F2 

'                                                            365 

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MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  night,  upon  my  truss  of  straw, 
Those  gaudy  clothes  hung  round  the  room. 

By  moon-glimpse  oft  their  shapes  I  saw, 
Like  bits  of  rainbow  in  the  gloom. 

Yet  scarce  I  heeded  them  at  all. 

Although  I  never  slept  a  wink ; 
The  feast,  next  day,  at  Cutlers'  Hall, 

Of  tMi  I  could  not  help  but  think. 

Wearily  trail'd  the  night  away ; 

Between  the  watchmen  and  the  clock, 
I  thought  it  never  would  be  day : — 

At  length  outcrew  the  earliest  cock ; 

A  second  answer'd,  then  a  third, 
At  a  long  distance — one,  two,  three : 

A  dozen  more  in  turn  were  heard — 
I  crew  among  the  rest  for  glee. 

Up  gat  we,  I  and  little  Bill, 

And  donn'd  our  newest  and  our  best « 
Nay,  let  the  proud  say  what  they  will, 

As  grand  as  fiddlers  we  were  drest. 

We  left  our  litter  in  the  nook, 

And  wash'd  ourselves  as  white  as  snow ; 
On  brush  and  bag  we  scorn'd  to  look, 

— It  was  a  holiday,  you  know. 

What  ail'd  me  then  I  could  not  tell, 
I  yawn'd  the  whole  forenoon  away ; 

And  hearken'd  while  the  vicar's  bell 
Went  ding  dong,  ding  dong,  pay,  pay,  pay ! 

The  clock  struck  twelve — I  love  the  twelves 
Of  all  the  hours  'twixt  sun  and  moon ; 

For  then  poor  lads  enjoy  themselves, 
— We  sleep  at  midnight,  rest  at  noon. 

This  noon  w^as  not  a  resting  time ! 

At  the  first  stroke  we  started  all. 
And,  while  the  tune  rang  through  the  chime, 

Muster'd,  like  soldiers,  at  the  Hall. 

Not  much  like  soldiers  in  our  gait ; 

Yet  never  soldier,  in  his  life. 
Tried,  as  he  march'd,  to  look  more  straight 

Than  Bill  and  I — to  drum  and  fife. 

But  now  I  think  on 't,  what  with  scars, 
Lank  bony  limbs,  and  spavin'd  feet, 

Like  broken  soldiers  from  the  wars. 
We  limp'd  yet  strutted,  through  the  street. 

Then,  while  our  meagre  motley  crew 
Came  from  all  quarters  of  the  towTi, 

Folks  to  their  doors  and  windows  flew ; 
I  thought  the  world  tum'd  upside-down. 

For  now,  instead  of  oaths  and  jeers. 

The  sauce  that  I  have  found  elsewhere. 

Kind  words,  and  smiles,  and  hearty  cheers 
Met  us — with  halfpence  here  and  there. 

The  mothers  held  their  babies  high. 
To  chuckle  at  our  hobbling  train. 

But  dipt  them  close  while  we  went  by ; 
— I  heard  their  kisses  fall  like  rain — 


And  wiped  my  cheek,  that  never  felt 
The  sweetness  of  a  mother's  kiss ; 

For  heart  and  eyes  began  to  melt, 
And  I  was  sad,  yet  pleased,  with  this. 

At  Cutlers'  Hall  we  found  the  crowd 
That  shout  the  gentry  to  their  feast ; 

They  made  us  way,  and  bawl'd  so  loud, 
We  might  have  been  young  lords  at  least. 

We  enter'd,  twenty  lads  and  more. 
While  gentlemen,  and  ladies  too, 

All  bade  us  welcome  at  the  door, 

And  kindly  ask'd  us — "  How  d'  ye  do  ?" 

"Bravely,"  I  answer'd;  but  my  ej'e 

Prickled,  and  leak'd,  and  twinkled  still ; 

I  long'd  to  be  alone,  to  cry, 

— To  be  alone,  and  cry  my  fill. 

Our  other  lads  were  blithe  and  bold. 
And  nestling,  nodding  as  they  sat. 

Till  dinner  came,  their  tales  they  told, 
And  talk'd  of  this,  and  laugh'd  at  that. 

I  pluck'd  up  courage,  gaped,  and  gazed 
On  the  fine  room,  fine  folks,  fine  things, 

Chairs,  tables,  knives  and  forks,  amazed. 
With  pots  and  platters  fit  for  kings. 

Roast-beef,  plum-pudding,  and  what  not. 
Soon  smoked  before  us — such  a  size ! 

Giants  their  dinners  might  have  got  ; 
We  open'd  all  our  mouths  and  eyes. 

Anon,  upon  the  board,  a  stroke 

Warn'd  each  to  stand  up  in  his  place  ; 

One  of  our  generous  friends  then  spoke 
Three  or  four  words — they  call'd  it  Grace. 

I  think  he  said — "  God  bless  our  food  ! " 
— Oft  had  I  heard  that  name,  in  tones 

Which  ran  like  ice,  cold  through  my  blood. 
And  made  the  flesh  creep  on  my  bones. 

But  now,  and  with  a  power  so  sweet. 

The  name  of  God  went  through  my  heart. 

That  my  lips  trembled  to  repeat 

Those  words,  and  tears  were  fain  to  start. 

Tears,  words,  were  in  a  twinkle  gone. 

Like  sparrows  whirring  through  the  street. 

When,  at  a  sign,  we  all  fell  on. 
As  geese  in  stubble,  to  our  meat. 

The  large  plum-puddings  first  were  carved, 
And  well  we  yonkers  plied  them  o'er  ; 

You  would  have  thought  we  had  been  starved 
Or  were  to  he — a  month  and  more. 

Next  the  roast-beef  flew  reeking  roimd 

In  glorious  slices,  mark  ye  that ! 
The  dishes  were  with  gravy  drown'd ! 

A  sight  to  make  a  weazel  fat 

A  great  meat-pie,  a  good  meat-pie, 

Baked  in  a  cradle  length  of  tin. 
Was  open'd,  emptied,  scoop'd  so  dry. 

You  might  have  seen  your  face  within. 
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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


183 


The  ladies  and  the  gentlemen 

Took  here  and  there  with  us,  a  seat ; 

They  might  be  hungry,  too — but  then 
We  gave  them  little  time  to  eat 

Their  arms  were  busy  helping  us, 
Like  cobblers'  elbows  at  their  work, 

Or  see-saw,  see-saw,  thus  and  thus ; 
A  merry  game  at  knife  and  fork. 

0  then  the  din!  the  deafening  din, 

Of  plates,  cans,  crockery,  spoons,  and  knives, 
And  waiters  running  out  and  in ! 
We  might  be  eating  for  our  lives. 

Such  feasting  I  had  never  seen : 

Some  presently  had  got  enough ; 
The  rest,  like  fox-hounds,  staunch  and  keen, 

Were  made  of  more  devouring  stuff 

They  cramm'd,  like  cormorants,  their  craws, 
As  though  they  never  would  have  done  ; 

It  was  a  feast  to  watch  their  jav.s 
Grind,  and  grow  weary,  one  by  one. 

But  there  's  an  end  to  everything  ; 
And  this  grand  dinner  pass'd  away. 

1  wonder  if  great  George  our  king 

Has  such  a  dinner  every  day. 

Grace  after  meat  again  was  said, 
And  my  good  feelings  sprang  anew  ; 

But,  at  the  sight  of  gingerbread, 
Wine,  nuts,  and  oranges,  they  flew. 

So  while  we  took  a  turn  with  these. 

Almost  forgetting  we  had  dined  ; 
As  though  we  might  do  what  we  please, 

We  loU'd,  and  joked,  and  told  our  mind. 

Now  I  had  time,  if  not  before. 

To  take  a  peep  at  every  lad ; 
I  counted  them  to  twenty-four. 

Each  in  his  Easter  finery  clad. 

All  wash'd  and  clean  as  clean  could  be, — 
And  yet  so  dingy,  marr'd,  and  grim, 

A  mole  with  half  an  eye  might  see 
Our  craft  in  every  look  and  limb. 

All  shapes  but  straight  ones  you  might  find, 
As  sapling-firs  on  the  high  moors, 

Black,  stunted,  crook'd,  through  which  the  wind. 
Like  a  wild  bull,  all  winter  roars. 

Two  toddling  five-years  olds  were  there, 
Twins,  that  had  just  begun  to  climb, 

With  cherry  cheeks,  and  curly  hair, 
And  skins  not  yet  ingrain'd  with  grime. 

I  wish'd,  I  did,  that  they  might  die, 

Like  "Babes  i'  th' Wood,"  the  little  slaves. 

And  "Robin  Red-breast"  painfully 

Hide  them  "  with  leaves,"  for  want  of  graves; 

Rather  than  live  like  me,  and  weep 
To  think  that  ever  they  were  born  ; 

Toil  the  long  day,  and  fi-om  short  sleep 
Wake  to  fresh  miseries  every  mom. 


Gay  as  young  goldfinches  in  spring, 

They  chirp'd  and  peck'd,  top-full  of  jjj; 

As  if  it  was  some  mighty  thing 
To  be  a  chimney-sweeper's  boy. 

And  so  it  is,  on  such  a  day 

As  welcome  Easter  brings  us  here  : 

In  London,  too,  the  first  of  May 

But  O,  what  is  it  all  the  year ! 

Close  at  a  Quaker  lady's  side 

Sat  a  young  girl ; — I  know  not  how 

I  felt  when  me  askance  she  eyed. 

And  a  quick  blush  flew  o'er  her  brow 

For  then,  just  then,  I  caught  a  face 
Fair — but  I  oft  had  seen  it  black. 

And  mark'd  the  owner's  tottering  pace 
Beneath  a  vile  two-bushel  sack. 

Oh!  had  I  known  it  was  a  lass. 

Could  I  have  scom'd  her  with  her  load  ? 
— Next  time  we  meet,  she  shall  not  pass 

Without  a  lift  along  the  road. 

Her  mother — mother  but  in  name ! 

Brought  her  to-day  to  dine  with  us  : 
Her  father — she 's  his  'prentice  : — shame 

On  both,  to  use  their  daughter  thus. 

Well,  /  shall  grow,  and  she  will  grow 

Older — it  may  be,  taller — yet ; 
And  if  she  '11  smile  on  me,  I  know 

Poor  Poll  shall  be  poor  Reuben's  pet. 

Time,  on  his  two  miequal  legs. 

Kept  crawling  round  the  church-clock's  face 
Though  none  could  see  him  shift  his  pegs 

Each  was  for  ever  changing  place. 

O,  why  are  pleasant  hours  so  short? 

And  why  are  Avretched  ones  so  long  ? 
They  fly  like  swallows  while  we  sport, 

They  stand  like  mules  when  all  goes  wrong 

Before  we  parted,  one  kind  friend. 
And  then  another,  talk'd  so  free  ; 

They  went  from  table-end  to  end. 
And  spoke  to  each,  and  spoke  to  me. 

Books,  pretty  books,  with  pictures  in, 
Were  given  to  those  who  learn  to  read 

Which  show'd  them  how  to  flee  from  sin 
And  to  be  happy  boys  indeed. 

These  climbers  go  to  Sunday  schools, 
And  hear  what  things  to  do  or  shun, 

Get  good  advice,  and  golden  rules 
For  all  their  lives — but  I'm  not  one. 

Nathless  I  '11  go  next  Sabbath-day, 

Where  masters,  without  thrashing,  teat  h 

Lost  c?iildren  how  to  read  and  pray. 
And  sing,  and  hear  the  parsons  preach. 

For  I  'm  this  day  determined — not 
With  bad  companions  to  grow  old, 

But,  weal  or  woe,  whate'er  my  lot, 

To  mind  what  our  good  friends  have'told. 
367 


184 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  told  us  things  I  never  knew 

Of  Him  Avho  heaven  and  earth  did  make, 

And  my  heart  felt  their  words  were  true ; 
It  bum'd  within  me  while  they  spake. 

Can  I  forget  that  God  is  love, 

And  sent  his  Son  to  dwell  on  earth  ? 

Or,  that  our  Savior  from  above. 
Lay  in  a  manger  at  his  birth  ? — 

Grew  up  in  humble  poverty, 
A  life  of  grief  and  sorrow  led  ? 

No  home  to  comfort  BQm  had  He ; 
No,  not  a  place  to  lay  his  head. 

Yet  He  was  merciful  and  kind, 

Heal'd  with  a  touch  all  sort  of  harms ; 

The  sick,  the  lame,  the  deaf,  the  blind, 
And  took  young  children  in  his  arras. 

Then  He  was  kill'd  by  wicked  men, 
And  buried  in  a  deep  stone  cave ; 

But  of  Himself  He  rose  again. 
On  Easter-Sunday  from  the  grave. 

Caught  up  in  clouds — at  God's  right  hand, 
In  Heaven  He  took  the  highest  place ; 

There  dying  Stephen  saw  him  stand, 
— Stephen,  who  had  an  angel's  face. 

He  loves  the  poor — He  always  did ; 

The  little  ones  are  still  his  care  : 
I  '11  seek  Him — let  who  will  forbid — 

I  '11  go  to  Him  this  night  in  prayer. 

O  soundly,  soundly  should  I  sleep. 
And  think  no  more  of  sufferings  past, 

If  God  would  only  bless,  and  keep, 
And  make  me  his — his  owTi,  at  last. 


•THOU,  GOD,  SEEST  ME."— Ge.\.  xvi,  13. 

0  God  unseen !  but  not  unknown ! 
Thine  eye  is  ever  fix'd  on  me; 

1  dwell  beneath  thy  secret  throne, 
Encompass'd  by  thy  deity. 

Throughout  this  universe  of  space 

To  nothing  am  I  long  allied. 
For  flight  of  time,  and  change  of  place 

My  strongest,  dearest  bonds  divide. 

Parents  I  had — ^but  where  are  they  ? 

Friends  whom  I  knew,  I  know  no  more  ; 
Companions  once  that  cheer'd  my  way 

Have  dropt  behind,  or  gone  before. 

Now  I  am  one  amidst  the  crowd 
Of  life  and  action  hurrjdng  round; 

Now  left  alone — for  like  a  cloud 

They  came — they  went,  and  are  not  found. 

Even  from  myself  sometimes  I  part, 
— Unconscious  sleep  is  nightly  death ; 

Yet  surely  by  my  bed  Thou  art. 
To  prompt  my  pulse,  inspire  my  heart. 


Of  all  that  I  have  done  or  said. 

How  little  can  I  now  recall ! 
Forgotten  things  to  me  are  dead. 

With  thee  they  hve — ^Thou  know'st  them  all 

Thou  hast  been  with  me  from  the  womb. 

Witness  to  every  conflict  here ; 
Nor  wilt  Thou  leave  me  at  the  tomb, 

Before  thy  bar  I  must  appear. 

The  moment  comes,  the  only  one 

Of  all  my  time  to  be  foretold  ; 
Though  when,  and  where,  and  how,  can  none 

Of  all  the  race  of  man  unfold. 

That  m.oment  comes,  when  strength  must  fail, 
When,  health,  and  hope,  and  comfort  flown, 

I  must  go  down  into  the  vale 

And  shade  of  death,  with  thee  alone. 

Alone  with  thee ; — in  that  dread  strife 
Uphold  me  through  mine  agony. 

And  gently  be  this  dying  life 
Exchanged  for  immortality. 

Then,  when  th'  unbodied  spirit  lands 
Where  flesh  and  blood  have  never  trod, 

And  in  the  unveil'd  presence  stands 
Of  thee,  my  Savior,  and  my  God : 

Be  mine  eternal  portion  this. 

Since  thou  wert  always  here  with  me, 
That  I  may  view  thy  face  in  bliss. 

And  be  for  evermore  with  Thee. 

Sept  22,  182a 


CHRIST  CRUCIFIED. 

Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Gabriele  Fiamma,  a  poet  of  th9 
Sixteenth  Century. 


"  Behold  the  man ! "  Are  these  the  gracious  eyes 
Whose  beams  could  kindle  life  among  the  dead  ? 
Is  this  the  awful  and  majestic  head 
Of  Him,  the  Lord,  almighty  and  all-wise  ? 

Are  these  the  hands  that  stretch'd  abroad  the  skiesi 
And  earth  with  verdure,  heaven  with  stars  o'erspread 
Are  these  the  feet  that  on  the  waves  would  tread. 
And  calm  their  rage  when  wildest  storms  arise? 

Ah  me!  how  wounded,  pale,  disfigured  now! 
Those  eyes,  the  joy  of  Heaven,  eclipsed  in  night ; 
Torn,  bleeding,  cold,  those  hands,  these  feet,  this  brow 
I  weep  for  love,  grief,  transport,  at  the  sight. 
"  My  Lord  I  my  God !"  for  me,  for  me  didst  Thou, 
In  shame,  reproach,  and  torment,  thus  dehght  ? 


CHRIST  LAID  IN  THE  SEPULCHRE. 


Imitated  from  the  same. 


Where  is  the  aspect,  more  than  heaven  serene. 
That  rapt  celestial  spirits  with  delight ; 

The  meekness  and  the  majesty  of  mien, 

That  won  the  yielding  heart  witli  gentle  might? 

368 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


185 


Where  is  the  voice,  whose  harmony  could  bind 

Seas  in  their  wrath,  and  demon-frenzy  quell ; 
The  eye,  whose  glance  was  sight  unto  "  the  blind, 

And  fill'd  the  soul  with  joy  unspeakable  ? 
Where  is  the  arm  that  crush'd  our  fiercest  foe — 

Satan,  and  all  the  powers  of  darkness  bound  ? 
Where  is  the  Servant's  humble  form  below. 

In  which  the  eternal  Son  of  God  was  found  ? 

Lo !  where  his  pilgrimage  of  mercy  ends  ! 

What  glory  here  into  the  grave  descends ! 


A  RETROSPECT. 

I  LEFT  the  God  of  truth  and  hght, 
I  left  the  Go^  who  gave  me  breath, 

To  wander  in  the  wilds  of  night, 
To  perish  in  the  snares  of  death ! 

Sweet  was  his  service  ;  and  his  yoke 
Was  light  and  easy  to  be  borne ; — 

Through  all  his  bonds  of  love  I  broke  ; 
I  cast  away  his  gifts  in  scorn. 

I  danced  in  folly's  giddy  maze ; 

And  drank  the  sea,  and  chased  the  wind : 
But  falsehood  lurk'd  in  all  her  ways. 

Her  laughter  left  a  pang  behind. 

I  dream'd  of  bliss  in  pleasure's  bowers. 
While  pillowing  roses  stay'd  ray  head  ; 

But  serpents  hiss'd  among  the  flowers, — 
I  woke,  and  thorns  were  all  my  bed. 

In  riches  then  I  sought  for  joy, 

And  placed  in  glittering  ore  my  trust  ; 

But  found  that  gold  was  all  alloy. 
And  worldly  treasure  fleeting  dust. 

I  woo'd  ambition — climb'd  the  pole. 
And  shone  among  the  stars  ; — but  fell 

Headlong,  in  all  my  pride  of  soul. 
Like  Lucifer,  from  heaven  to  hell. 

Now  poor,  and  lost,  and  trampled  down, 
Where  shall  the  chief  of  sinners  fly. 

Almighty  Vengeance,  from  thy  frown  ? 
Eternal  Justice,  from  thine  eye  ? 

Lo !  through  the  gloom  of  guilty  fears, 
My  faith  discerns  a  dawTi  of  grace ; 

The  sun  of  righteousness  appears 
In  Jesus'  reconciling  face. 

My  suffering,  slain,  and  risen  Lord  I 
In  deep  distress  I  turn  to  thee — 

I  claim  acceptance  on  thy  word, 

My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  not  me  ! 

Prostrate  before  thy  mercy-seat, 
I  dare  not,  if  I  would,  despair ; 

None  ever  perish'd  at  thy  feet, 
And  I  will  be  for  ever  there. 

47 


MAKE  WAY  FOR  LIBERTY! 


On  the  exploit  of  Arnold  Winkelried  at  tJie  battle  of  Sen* 
pach,  in  which  the  Swiss,  fighting  for  therr  independence,  total 
ly  defeated  the  Austrians,  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

"Make  way  for  liberty!" — he  cried; 
Make  way  for  libertj',  and  died  I 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  I 
A  wall,  where  every  conscious  stone 
Seem'd  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown  ; 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear, 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear ; 
A  wood,  like  that  enchanted  grove  > 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove. 
Where  every  silent  tree  possess'd 
A  spirit  prison'd  in  its  breast. 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Would  startle  into  hideous  life  \ 
So  dense,  so  still,  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood ! 
Impregnable  their  front  appears. 
All  horrent  with  projected  spears. 
Whose  polish'd  points  before  them  shine, 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line, 
Bright  as  the  breakers'  splendors  run 
Along  the  billows,  to  the  Sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  native  land  : 
Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  the  ignoble  yoke. 
And  forged  their  fetters  into  swords, 
On  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords : 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gain'd. 
In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintain'd : 
Marshall 'd  once  more  at  Freedom's  call, 
They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 
Where  he  who  conquer'd,  he  who  fell. 
Was  deem'd  a  dead,  or  living  Tell ! 
Such  virtue  had  that  patriot  breathed. 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 
That  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew. 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew. 
And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath ; 
The  fire  of  conflict  burnt  within. 
The  battle  trembled  to  begin  : 
Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground. 
Point  for  attack  was  nowhere  found, 
Where'er  the  impatient  Switzers  gazed. 
The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed ; 
That  line  't  were  suicide  to  meet. 
And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet, — 
How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 
And  leave  their  homes,  the  homes  of  slaves? 
Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread 
With  clanging  chains  above  their  head  ? 


1  See  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered,  canto  xviii 

369 


186 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  must  not  be :  This  day,  this  hour, 
Annihilates  the  oppressor's  power  ; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield — 
She  must  not  fall ;  her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 
Few  Avere  the  number  she  could  boast  ; 
But  every  freeman  was  a  host, 
And  felt  as  though  himself  w^ere  he 
On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one  indeed ; 
Behold  him, — Arnold  Winkelried  ! 
There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 
Unmark'd  he  stood  amid  the  throng. 
In  rumination  deep  and  long, 
Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace, 
The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 
And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 
Anticipate  the  bursting  storm  ; 
And  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow 
Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done, 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won : — 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty ! "  he  cried, 
Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide. 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp ; 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty !  "  he  cried  : 
Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side : 
He  bow'd  amongst  them  like  a  tree, 
And  thus  made  way  for  Liberty. 

Swift  to  the  broach  his  comrades  fly; 
"  Make  way  for  Liberty!"  they  cry. 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart. 
As  rush'd  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart; 
While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall, 
Rout,  ruin,  panic,  scatter'd  all : 
An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  : 
Thus  death  made  way  for  Liberty  ! 


STANZAS. 

A  RACE,  a  race  on  earth  we  run ; 

And  hold  a  prize  in  view, 
More  bright  than  if  we  cha-sed  the  sun 

Through  heaven's  eternal  blue. 

Changes  we  prove,  and  vanish  soon  ; 

Changes  from  youth  to  age, 
Silent  as  those  that  shape  the  moon. 

In  her  brief  pilgrimage. 

Like  constellations  on  their  way. 
That  meet  the  morning  light; 

Wu  travel  up  to  higher  day 

Through  shades  of  deeper  night. 


Their  tasks  the  heavenly  host  fulfil ; 

Ere  long  to  shine  their  last ; — 
We,  if  we  do  our  Father's  will. 

Shall  shine  when  they  are  past 

Knit  like  the  social  stars  in  love, 
Fair  as  the  moon,  and  clear 
As  yonder  sun  enthroned  above. 
Christians  through  life  appear. 
Sheffidd,  May  9,  1828. 


THE  RETREAT. 

The  following  lines  were  named  from  a  Pleasure-houpe,  in  i 
the  grounds  of  a  gentleman  in  Lincolnshire,  where  the  writer 
found  some  verses  addressed  to  himself,  on  his  arrival  tliere,  in 
September,  18 — . 

A  STRANGER  sal  down  in  the  lonely  retreat : — 

Though  kindness  had  welcomed  him  there, 
Yet,  weary  with  travel,  and  fainting  with  heat. 

His  bosom  was  sadden'd  with  care  : 
That  sinking  of  spirit  they  only  can  know 

Whose  joys  are  all  chasten'd  by  fears  ; 
The  streams  of  whose  comfort,  though  deeply  they 
flow. 

Still  wind  through  the  valley  of  tears. 

What  ails  thee,  O  stranger  ?  But  open  thine  eye, 

A  paradise  bursts  on  thy  view ; 
The  sun  in  his  glory  is  marching  on  high 

Through  cloudless  and  infinite  blue: 
The  woods,  in  their  wildest  luxuriance  display'd. 

Are  stretching  their  coverts  of  green. 
While  bright,  from  the  depth  of  their  innermost  shade, 

Yon  mirror  of  waters  is  seen,. 

There  richly  reflected,  the  mansion,  the  lawn, 

The  banks  and  the  foliage  appear. 
By  nature's  own  pencil  enchantingly  drawn — 

A  landscape  enshrined  in  a  sphere ! 
While  the  fish  in  their  element  sport  to  and  fro, 

Quick-glancing,  or  gliding  at  ease. 
The  birds  seem  to  fly  in  a  concave  below 

Through  a  vista  of  down-growing  trees. 

The  current,  unrippled  by  volatile  airs, 

Now  glitters,  now  darkens  along ; 
And  yonder  o'erflowing  incessantly  bears 

Symphonious  accordance  to  song  ; 
The  song  of  the  ring-dove  enamour'd,  that  floats 

Like  soft-melting  murmurs  of  grief; 
The  song  of  the  redbreast  in  ominous  notes, 

Foretelling  the  fall  of  the  leaf; 

The  song  of  the  bee,  in  its  serpentine  flight, 

From  blossom  to  blossom  that  roves ; 
The  song  of  the  wind  in  the  silence  of  night, 

When  it  wakens  or  hushes  the  groves : 
And  sweet,  through  the  chorus  of  rapture  and  love, 

Which  God  in  his  temple  attends. 
With  the  song  of  all  nature,  beneath  and  abo\e, 

The  voice  of  these  waters  ascends ! 

The  beauty,  the  music,  the  bliss,  of  that  scene. 

With  ravishing  sympathy  stole 
Through  the  slranger's  dark  bosom,  illumined  his  mien,  i 

And  soothed  and  exalted  his  soul. 

370 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ISI 


Cold,  gloomy  forebodings  then  vanish  away, 

His  terrors  to  ecstacies  turn, 
As  the  vapors  of  night,  at  the  dawning  of  day, 

With  splendor  and  loveliness  bum. 

The  stranger  reposed  in  the  lonely  retreat. 

Now  smiUng  at  phantoms  gone  by : 
When,  lo  I  a  new  welcome,  in  numbers  most  sweet. 

Saluted  his  ear  through  his  eye  ; 
It  came  lo  his  eye,  but  it  went  to  his  soul — 

Some  Muse,  as  she  wander'd  that  way. 
Had  dropt  from  her  bosom  a  mystical  scroll, 

Whose  secrets  I  dare  not  betray. 

Strange  tones,  we  are  told,  the  pale  mariner  hears 

When  the  mermaids  ascend  from  their  caves. 
And  sing  where  the  moon,  newly-risen,  appears 

A  column  of  gold  on  the  waves : 
And  wild  notes  of  wonder  the  shepherd  entrance. 

Who,  dreaming,  beholds  in  the  vale. 
By  torch-light  of  glow-worms,  the  fairies  that  dance 

To  minstrelsy  piped  in  the  gale. 

Not  less  to  that  stranger  mystenously  brought, 

With  harmony  deep  and  refined. 
In  language  of  silence  and  music  of  thought, 

Those  numbers  were  heard  in  his  mind : 
He  lisfen'd  and  wonder'd,  he  trembled  and  wept. 

While  transport  with  tenderness  vied, 
It  seem'd  as  the  harp  of  a  seraph  were  swept 

By  a  spirit  that  sung  at  his  side. 

All  ceased  in  a  moment,  and  nothing  was  heard. 

And  nothing  was  seen  through  the  wood, 
But  the  twittering  cry  of  a  fugitive  bird. 

And  the  sun-set  that  blazed  on  the  flood : 
He  rose  ;  for  the  shadows  of  evening  grew  long, 

And  narrow  the  glimpses  between : 
The  owlet  in  ambush  was  whooping  his  song, 

And  the  gossamer  waved  on  the  green. 

Oft  pausing,  and  hearkening,  and  turning  his  eye. 

He  left  the  sequester'd  retreat, 
.A.S  the  stars  in  succession  awoke  through  the  sky, 

And  the  moon  of  the  harvest  shone  sweet ; 
So  pure  was  her  lustre,  so  lovely  and  bright, 

So  soft  on  the  landscape  it  lay. 
The  shadows  appeared  but  the  slumber  of  light, 

And  the  night-scene  a  dream  of  the  day. 

He  walk'd  to  the  mansion — though  silent  his  tongue. 

And  his  heart  with  its  fullness  opprest. 
His  spirit  within  him  melodiously  sung 

The  feelings  that  throbb'd  in  his  breast : 
'  0  ye,  who  inherit  this  pri^^leged  spot. 

All  blooming  like  Eden  of  yore. 
What  earth  can  afford  is  already  your  lot. 

With  the  promise  of  life  evermore ! 

'  Here,  oft  as  to  strangers  your  table  is  spread. 

May  angels  sit  down  at  the  board ! 
Here,  oft  as  the  poor  to  your  dwelling  are  led, 

Be  charity  shown  to  your  lord ! 
Thus  walking  with  God  in  your  paradise  here, 

In  humble  communion  of  love. 
At  length  may  your  spirits,  when  Christ  shall  appear, 

Be  caught  up  to  glory  above  !" 


LOVEST  THOU  ME? 

"  LovEST  thou  me  ? "  I  hear  my  Savior  say  : 
Oh !  that  my  heart  had  power  to  answer  "  Yea , 
Thou  knowest  all  things.  Lord,  in  heaven  above. 
And  earth  beneath:  Tliou  knowest  that  I  love!" 
But  'tis  not  so ;  in  word,  in  deed,  in  thought, 
I  do  not,  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought. 
Thy  love  must  give  that  power,  thy  love  alone  ; 
There's  nothing  worthy  of  thee  but  thine  owti. 
Lord,  with  the  love  wherewith  thou  lovest  me, 
Shed  in  my  heart  abroad,  would  I  love  tJiee, 


A  SIMILE  ON  A  LADY'S  PORTRAIT 

A  FOUNTAIN,  issuing  into  light 

Before  a  marble  palace,  threw 
To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright. 

Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew; 
But  soon  an  humbler  course  it  took, 
And  glid  away — a  nameless  brook. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprung. 
Flies  o'er  its  eddying  surface  play'd. 

Birds  'midst  the  waving  branches  sung. 

Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadows  stray'd 

The  wear}'  there  lay  down  to  rest. 

And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

'Twas  beautiful — to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain's  crystal  turn  to  gems. 

And  such  resplendent  colors  catch. 
As  though  't  were  raining  diadems  ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art. 

That  charm'd  the  eye,  but  miss'd  the  heart. 

Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream 

Whose  unimprison'd  waters  run, 
Wild  as  the  c'nanges  of  a  dream. 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun ; 
Its  lovely  links  have  power  to  bind 
And  whirl  away  my  willing  mind. 

So  thought  I,  when  I  saw  the  face, 

By  happy  portraiture  reveal'd, 
Of  one,  adorn'd  with  every  grace ; 

Her  name  and  date  from  me  conceal'd, 
But  not  her  story  : — she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  splendid  scene. 

She  cast  her  glory  round  a  court, 

And  frolick'd  in  the  gayest  ring, 
WTiere  Fashion's  high-born  minions  sport 

Like  gilded  insects  on  the  wing ; 
But  thence,  when  love  had  touch'd  her  soul 
To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 

'Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and  plains, 

She  treads  the  paths  of  purer  life. 
And  in  affection's  bosom  reigns  : 

No  foimtain  scattering  diamond-showers, 

But  the  sweet  streamlet,  edged  with  flowers 

371 


188 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  POET'S  BENEDICTION. 


Transmitted  to  a  Young  Lady,  in  a  distant  county,  who  had 
desired  "  a  tew  lines"  in  the  Author's  own  handwriting. 


Spirits  in  heaven  may  interchange 
Thoughts,  without  voice  or  sound  ; 

Spirits  on  earth  at  will  can  range 
Wherever  man  is  found  ; — 

Their  thoughts  (as  silent  and  as  fleet 
As  summer-lightnings  in  the  west, 
When  evening  sinks  to  glorious  rest) 

In  written  symbols  meet. 

The  motion  of  a  feather  darts 
The  secrets  of  sequester'd  hearts 

To  kindred  hearts  afar, 
As  in  the  stillness  of  the  night 
Quick  rays  of  intermingling  light 

Sparkle  from  star  to  star. 

A  spirit  to  a  spirit  speaks 

Where  these  few  letters  stand  : 
Strangers  alike, — the  younger  seeks 

A  token  from  the  hand 
That  traced  an  unpretending  song, 

Whose  numbers  won  her  gentle  soul, 

While,  like  a  mountain  rill,  they  stole 
Jn  trembling  harmony  along  : 

What  shall  the  poet's  spirit  send 
To  his  unseen,  unseeing  friend  ? 
— A  wish  as  pure  as  e'er  had  birth 
In  thought  or  language  of  this  earth. 
Cynthia  is  young, — may  she  be  old  ; 

And  fair,  no  doubt, — may  she  grow  wrinkled 
Her  locks,  in  verse  at  least,  are  gold, — 

May  they  turn  silver,  thinly  sprinkled  ; 
The  rose  her  cheek,  the  fire  her  eye, 
Youth,  health,  and  strength  successive  fly, 
And  in  the  end — may  Cynthia  die! 

"  Unkind — inhuman  !"  Stay  your  tears, 
I  only  wish  you  length  of  years ; 
And  wish  them  still,  with  all  their  woes 
And  all  their  blessings,  till  the  close  : 
For  Hope  and  Fear,  vnth  anxious  strife. 
Are  wrestlers  in  the  rmg  of  life ; 
And  yesterday, — to-day, — to-morrow, — 
Are  but  alternate  joy  and  sorrow. 

Now  mark  the  sequel : — May  your  mind 
In  wisdom's  ways  true  pleasure  find. 
Grow  strong  in  virtue,  rich  in  truth, 
And  year  by  year  renew  its  youth ; 
Till,  in  the  late  triumphant  hour. 
The  Spirit  shall  the  flesh  o'erpower, 
TViis  from  its  sufferings  gain  release. 
And  tfioi  take  wing  and  part  in  peace. 


FOR  THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

Flower  after  flower  comes  forth  in  spring, 
Bird  after  bird  begins  to  sing  ; 


Till  copse  and  field  in  richest  bloom. 

Sparkle  with  dew,  and  breathe  perfume, — 

While  hill  and  valley,  all  day  long, 

And  half  the  night,  resound  with  song. 

So  may  acquaintance,  one  by  one. 

Come  like  spring-flowers  to  meet  the  sun. 

And  o'er  these  pages,  pure  and  white. 

Kind  words,  kind  thoughts,  kind  prayers  indite, 

Which  sweeter  odor  shall  dispense 

Than  vernal  blossoms  to  tne  sense ; 

Till  woods  and  streams  less  fair  appear 

Than  autographs  and  sketches  here  : 

— Or,  like  the  minstrels  of  the  grove, 

Pour  strains  of  harmony  and  love, 

The  music  made  by  heart  to  heart. 

In  which  the  least  can  bear  a  part. 

More  exquisite  than  all  the  notes 

Of  nightingales'  and  thrushes'  throats. 

Thus  shall  this  book,  from  end  to  end, 

Show^  in  succession  friend  on  friend, 

By  their  own  living  hands  portray'd, 

In  prose  and  verse,  in  light  and  shade. 

By  pen  and  pencil, — till  her  eye, 

W^ho  owns  the  volume,  shall  descrj'^ 

On  many  a  leaf  some  lovely  trace. 

Reminding  of  a  lovelier  face  ; 

With  here  and  there  the  humbler  line, 

RecaUing  such  a  phiz  as  mme. 


THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  AN  ALBUM. 


Ut  pictura,  poesis. — Hor.  de  ^Irt.  Poet 


Two  lovely  sisters  here  unite 

To  blend  improvement  with  delight ; 

Painting  and  poetry  engage 

By  turns  to  deck  the  Album's  page. 

Here  may  each  glowing  picture  be 
The  quintessence  of  Poesy, 
With  skill  so  exquisitely  wrought. 
As  if  the  colors  were  pure  thought, — 
Thought  from  the  bosom's  inmost  cell. 
By  magic  tints  made  visible. 
That,  while  the  eye  admires,  tWe  mind 
Itself,  as  in  a  glass,  may  find. 

And  may  the  poet's  verse,  alike. 
With  all  the  power  of  Painting  strike , 
So  freely,  so  divinely  trace. 
In  every  line,  the  line  of  grace ; 
And  beautify,  with  such  sweet  art, 
The  image-chamber  of  the  heart, 
That  Fancy  here  may  gaze  her  fill. 
Forming  fresh  scenes  and  shapes  at  will, 
W^here  silent  words  alone  appear. 
Or,  borrowing  voice,  but  touch  the  ear. 

Yet  humble  prose  with  these  shall  stand  , 
Friends,  kindred,  comrades,  hand  in  hand. 
All  in  this  fair  inclosure  meet. 
The  lady  of  the  book  to  greet. 
And,  with  the  pen  or  pencil,  make 
These  leaves  love-tokens,  for  her  sake. 
Sheffield,  1828. 

37^ 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


189 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HIS  RETURN  TO  CEYLON,  AS  A  MISSIONARY,  AFTER 
A  VISIT  IN  ENGLAND. 

Home,  kindred,  friends,  and  country, — these 
Are  ties  with  which  we  never  part ; 

From  clime  to  clime,  o'er  land  and  seas. 
We  bear  them  with  us  in  our  heart : 

But  O,  'tis  hard  to  feel  resign'd. 

When  these  must  all  be  left  behind ! 

Yet,  when  the  pilgrim's  staff  we  take, 
And  follow  Christ  from  shore  to  shore, 

Gladly  for  Him  we  all  forsake. 
Press  on,  and  only  look  before  ; 

Though  humbled  Nature  mourns  her  loss, 

The  spirit  glories  in  the  cross. 

It  is  no  sin,  like  man,  to  weep, 

For  Jesus  wept  o'er  Lazarus  dead  ; 

Or  yearn  for  home  beyond  the  deep, 
He  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head : 

The  patriot  pang  will  He  condemn, 

Who  grieved  o'er  lost  Jerusalem? 

Take  up  your  cross,  my  friend,  again  ; 

Go  forth  without  the  camp  to  Him 
Who  left  his  throne  to  dwell  with  men. 

Who  died  his  murderers  to  redeem  : 
O!  tell  his  name  in  every  ear ; 
Doubt  not,  the  dead  themselves  shall  hear ; — 

Hear,  and  come  forth  to  life  anew : 

Then,  while  the  Gentile  courts  they  fill, 
•     Shall  not  your  Savior's  words  stand  true  ? 
Home,  kindred,  friends,  and  country,  still. 

In  Candy's  wildest  woods  you'll  find. 

Yet  lose  not  those  you  left  behind. 


SHORT-HAND, 

TO  ACCOMPANY  SOME  LESSONS  IN  STENOGRAPHY, 
WHICH  THE  AUTHOR  WROTE  FOR  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

These  lines  and  dots  are  locks  and  keys, 
In  narrow  space  to  treasure  thought. 
Whose  precious  hoards,  whene'er  you  please, 
Are  thus  to  light  from  darkness  brought. 

On  the  small  tablet  of  your  heart, 
Bv  Heaven's  own  finger  be  engraved, 
Within,  without,  through  every  part. 
The  "  words  whereby  you  must  be  saved." 

There  the  bright  pages  of  God's  book 
In  secret  characters  may  lie. 
Where  you  alone  have  power  to  look. 
Though  hid  from  man  or  angel's  eye. 

Could  nature's  secrets  all  be  found 
Unbosom'd  where  the  billows  roll. 
In  flowers  embroider'd  on  the  ground. 
By  stare  emblazon'd  o'er  the  pole : — 

Less  were  the  sum  of  truth  reveal'd, 
Through  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea  express'd, 
Than  would  be  written  then,  and  seal'd, 
Once  and  for  ever,  in  your  breast. 

2G 


BRIDAL  GREETINGS. 

Ocean  and  land  the  globe  divide  ; 

Summer  and  winter  share  the  year ; 
Darkness  and  light  walk  side  by  side ; 

And  earth  and  heaven  are  always  near 

Though  each  be  good  and  fair,  alone, 
And  glorious,  in  its  time  and  place ; 

In  all,  when  fitly  pair'd,  is  shown 

More  of  their  Maker's  power  and  grace 

Then  may  the  union  of  young  hearts, 

So  early  and  so  well  begun, 
Like  sea  and  shore,  in  all  their  parts, 

Appear  as  twain,  but  be  as  one. 

Be  it  like  summer — may  they  find 

Bliss,  beauty,  hope,  where'er  ihey  roam  ■. 

Be  it  like  winter,  when  confined — 
Peace,  comfort,  happiness,  at  home  :- 

Like  day  and  night — sweet  interchange 
Of  care,  enjoyment,  action,  rest ; 

Absence  nor  coldness  e'er  estrange 
Hearts  by  unfailing  love  possess'd  • 

Like  earth's  horizon — be  their  scene 
Of  life  a  rich  and  various  ground ; 

And,  whether  lowering  or  serene, 
Heaven  all  above  it  and  around. 

When  land  and  ocean,  day  and  night, 
When  years  and  nature  cease  to  be, 

May  their  inheritance  be  light, 
Their  union  one  eternity ! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  GNAT. 

Found  crushed  on  the  leaf  of  a  Lady's  Album,  and  written 
{with  a  different  reading  in  the  last  line)  in  lead-pencil  b«- 
neath  it. 

Lie  there,  embalm'd  from  age  to  age  I — 
This  is  the  Album's  noblest  page, 
Though  every  glowing  leaf  be  fraught 
With  painting,  poesy,  and  thought ; 
Where  tracks  of  mortal  hands  are  seen, 
A  hand  invisible  has  been, 
And  left  this  autograph  behind, 
This  image  from  th'  eternal  mind ; 
A  work  of  skill  surpassing  sense, 
A  labor  of  Omnipotence ! 

Though  frail  as  dust  it  meet  the  eye, 
He  form'd  this  Gnat  who  built  the  sky ; 
Stop — lest  it  vanish  at  thy  breath — 
This  speck  had  life,  and  suffer'd  death ! 

Sheffield,  July  18,  1827. 


A  RIDDLE, 

\\  HICH  EVERY  READER   MAY  SOLVE  TO  HIMSELF,  BUT 
NONE  TO  ANOTHER. 

I  KNOW  not  what  these  lines  will  be, 
I  know  not  who  these  lines  may  see , 

373 


190 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  since  a  word  in  season  sent, 
As  from  a  bow  at  hazard  bent, 
May  reach  a  roving  eye,  or  dart 
Con^•iction  through  a  careless  heart, 
O  that  an  arrow  I  might  find 
In  the  small  quiver  of  my  mind, 
Which  with  unerring  aim  should  strike 
Each  who  encounters  it  alike. 

Reader,  attention !  I  will  spring 

A  wondrous  thought; — 'tis  on  the  wing: 

Guard  well  your  heart — you  guard  in  vain. 

The  wound  is  made,  yet  gives  no  pain  ; 

Surprise  may  cause  your  cheek  to  glow, 

Yet,  courage !  none  but  you  shall  know ; 

The  thought  awaken'd  by  my  spell 

Is  more  than  I  myself  can  tell. 

How  ?  search  the  secrets  of  your  breast, 

And  think  of  that  which  you  love  lest  I 

Then  ask  within,  "  What  will  this  be, 

A  thousand  ages  hence,  to  me  ? " 

And  if  it  will  not  pass  the  fire 

In  which  all  nature  shall  expire, 

Think,  ere  these  rhymes  aside  are  cast, 

(As  though  the  thought  might  be  your  last), 

"  When  shall  I  fmd  below,  above, 

An  object  worthy  of  my  love  ? " 

Now  hearken !  and  forget  it  never — 
Love  that  which  you  may  love  for  ever. 
SlieffieU,  1820. 


TIME  EMPLOYED,  TIME  ENJOYED. 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  LADY  FROM  WHOM  THE  AU- 
THOR HAD  RECEIVED  AN  ELEGANTLY  WROUGHT 
WATCH-POCKET. 

Within  this  curious  case 
Time's  Sentinel  I  place. 
Who,  while  calm  unconscious  slumber, 
Shuts  creation  from  mine  eyes, 
Through  the  silent  gloom  shall  number 
Every  moment  as  it  flies. 
And  record,  at  dawn  of  day, 
Thrice  ten  thousand  past  away. 

On  each  of  these  my  breath 
May  pause  'twixt  life  and  death ; 
By  a  subtler  line  depending 
Than  the  ray  of  twinkling  light 
Which  the  smallest  star  is  sending 
Every  moment  through  the  night; 
For,  on  films  more  finely  spun, 
All  things  hang  beneath  the  sun. 

Rapt  through  a  wildering  dream. 
Awake  in  sleep  I  seem  ; 
Sorrow  wrings  my  soul  with  anguish, 
Joy  expands  my  throbbing  breast ; 
Now  o'erwhelm'd  with  care  I  languish, 
Now  serene  and  tranquil  rest : 
Morning  comes ;  and  all  between 
1?  as  thousfh  it  ne'er  had  been. 


But  Time  has  daylight  hours. 
And  Man  immortal  powers  ; 
Waking  joys  and  sleepless  sorrow. 
Worldly  care,  celestial  peace ; 
Life  renewing  every  morrow, 
Not  with  death  itself  shall  cease : 
Man,  through  all  eternity, 
What  he  here  hath  been  shall  be ! 

May  she,  whose  skilful  hand 

This  fairy  net-work  plann'd. 

Still  in  innocent  employment, 

Far  from  vanity  and  vice. 

Seek  the  pearl  of  true  enjoyment. 

On  her  path  to  Paradise  ; 

Time,  for  earth  or  heaven  employ'd 

(Both  have  claims)  is  Time  enjoy'd. 

Every  day  to  her  in  flight 

Bequeath  a  gem  at  night, — 

Some  sweet  hope,  some  hallow'd  pleasure 

From  remembrance  ne'er  to  part ; 

Hourly  blessings  swell  the  treasure 

Hidden  in  her  grateful  heart ; 

And  may  every  moment  cast 

Brighter  glory  on  her  last ! 


THE  LAURUSTINUS;  FOR  H.  O. 

Fair  tree  of  winter!  fresh  and  flowering, 

When  all  around  is  dead  and  dry ; 
Whose  ruby  buds,  though  storms  are  lowering 
Spread  their  white  blossoms  to  the  sky : 
Green  are  thy  leaves,  more  purely  green 
Through  every  changing  period  seen  ; 
And  when  the  gaudy  months  are  past, 
Thy  loveliest  season  is  the  last. 

Be  thou  an  emblem — thus  unfolding 
The  history  of  that  Maiden's  mind. 
Whose  eye,  these  humble  lines  beholding, 
In  them  her  future  lot  may  find  : 
Through  life's  mutations  may  she  be 
A  modest  Evergreen  like  thee : 
Though  bless'd  in  youth,  in  age  more  bless'd 
Still  be  her  latest  days  the  best 


MOTTOES  FOR  ALBUMS. 

L 
Mind  is  invisible,  but  you  may  find 
A  method  here  to  let  me  see  your  mind. 

2. 
Behold  my  Album  unbegun, 
\\'7iich  when  't  is  finish'd  will  be  none 

3. 

Faint  lines,  on  brittle  glass  and  clear, 
A  diamond  pen  may  trace  with  art ; 
But  what  the  feeblest  hand  writes  here. 
Is  graven  on  the  Owner's  heart. 


May  all  the  names  recorded  here 
In  the  Lamb's  book  of  life  appear. 


374 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


191 


Here  friends  assemble,  hand  and  heart, 
Whom  life  may  sever,  death  must  part ; 
Sweet  be  their  deaths,  their  lives  well  spent, 
And  this  their  friendship's  monument. 

6. 
My  Album  is  a  barren  tree, 
Where  leaves  and  only  leaves  you  see ; 
But  touch  it — flowers  and  fruits  will  spring, 
And  birds  among  the  foliage  sing. 

7. 
Fairies  were  kind  to  country  Jennies, 
And  in  their  shoes  dropp'd  silver  pennies ; 
Here  the  bright  tokens  which  you  leave, 
As  fairy  favors  I  receive. 

8. 
My  Album's  open ;  come  and  see ; — 
What,  won't  you  waste  a  thought  on  me  ? 
Write  but  a  word,  a  word  or  two, 
And  make  me  love  to  think  on  you. 

9. 

Give  rae  of  your  esteem  a  sample ; 
A  line  will  be  of  price  untold : 

In  gifts,  the  heart  is  all,  and  ample ; 
It  makes  them  worth  their  weight  in  gold. 

10. 

The  fairy  made  the  little  girl. 
Whene'er  she  spoke,  drop  gold  and  pearl, 
Sweet  flowers  or  sparkling  gems ; 
So  be  the  words  which  you  indite 
Rings,  roses,  jewels,  in  my  sight. 
Worth  all  the  wealth  of  diadems. 

11. 

Not  every  bird  in  spring 

Is  seen  at  once  upon  the  wing, 

Or  heard  in  song  or  call ; 
So  in  my  Album,  turn  about 
My  friends,  like  birds  in  spring,  come  out : 

You  're  welcome  one  and  all. 

12. 

THE  OWNER  OF  THE  BOOK  TO  HER  FRIEND. 

My  Album  is  a  garden-plot. 
Here  all  my  friends  may  sow, 

Where  thorns  and  thistles  flourish  not  ; 
But  flowers  alone  will  grow  : 

With  smiles  for  sunshine,  tears  for  showers, 

I  '11  water,  warm,  and  watch  these  flowers. 

A  friend's  reply. 
Such  flowers  among  these  leaves  be  found. 
As  once  the  blissful  garden  crown'd  ; 
And  here  the  happy  owner  dwell, 
Like  Eve  in  Eden  ere  she  fell. 


A  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD. 

Emblem  of  Eternity, 
Unbeginning,  endless  Sea ! 
Let  me  launch  my  soul  on  thee. 

Sail,  nor  keel,  nor  helm,  nor  oar. 

Need  I,  ask  I,  to  explore 

Thine  expanse  from  shore  to  shore. 


By  a  single  glance  of  thought. 

Thy  whole  realm  's  before  me  brought, 

Like  the  universe,  from  nought. 

All  thine  aspects  now  I  view, 

Ever  old,  yet  ever  new  ; 

Time  nor  tide  thy  powers  subdue. 

All  thy  voices  now  I  hear : 
Sounds  of  gladness,  grandeur,  fear 
Meet  and  mingle  in  mine  ear. 

All  thy  wonders  are  reveal'd  : 
Treasures  hidden  in  thy  field ! 
From  the  birth  of  nature  seal'd. 

But  thy  depths  I  search  not  now. 
Nor  thy  limpid  surface  plow 
With  a  foam-repelling  prow. 

Eager  fancy,  unconfined, 
In  a  voyage  of  the  mind 
Sweeps  along  thee  like  the  wind. 

Here  a  breeze,  I  skim  thy  plain ; 
There  a  tempest,  pour  amain 
Thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and  rain. 

Where  the  billows  cease  to  roll, 
Round  the  silence  of  the  pole, 
Thence  set  out  my  venturous  soul ! 

See,  by  Greenland  cold  and  wild, 
Rocks  of  ice  eternal  piled  ; 
Yet  the  mother  loves  her  child  ; 

And  the  w  ildernesses  drear 
To  the  native's  heart  are  dear  ; 
All  life's  charities  dwell  here. 

Next,  on  lonely  Labrador, 

Let  me  hear  the  snow-falls  roar, 

Devastating  all  before. 

Yet  even  here,  in  glens  and  coves, 
Man,  the  heir  of  all  things,  roves. 
Feasts  and  fights,  and  laughs  and  loves 

But  a  brighter  vision  breaks 
O'er  Canadian  woods  and  lakes  ; 
— These  my  spirit  soon  forsakes. 

Land  of  exiled  Liberty, 

Where  our  fathers  once  were  free, 

Brave  New-England,  hail  to  thee  I 

Pennsylvania,  while  thy  flood 
Waters  fields  unbought  with  blood. 
Stand  for  peace  as  thou  hast  stood. 

The  West  Indies  I  behold. 
Like  the  Hesperides  of  old, 
— Trees  of  hfe,  with  fruits  of  gold. 

No — a  curse  is  on  the  soil. 
Bonds  and  scourges,  tears  and  toil, 
Man  degrade,  and  earth  despoil. 

Horror-struck,  I  turn  aw^ay, 
Coasting  down  the  Mexique  bay; 
Slavery  there  hath  lost  the  day. 

375 


192 


MONTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Loud  the  voice  of  Freedom  spoke  ; 
Every  accent  split  a  yoke, 
Every  word  a  dungeon  broke. 

Though  Arabia  charge  the  breeze 
With  the  mcense  of  her  tree&. 
On  I  press  o'er  southern  seas. 

South  America  expands 
Mountain-forests,  river-lands, 
And  a  nobler  race  demands. 

Cape  of  Storms !  thy  spectre  's  fled. 
And  the  angel  Hope,  instead, 
Lights  from  heaven  upon  thy  head. 

And  a  nobler  race  arise, 

Stretch  their  limbs,  unclose  their  eyes, 

Claim  the  earth,  and  seek  the  skies. 

Where  thy  Table-mountain  stands, 
Barbarous  hordes,  from  dreary  sands, 
Bless  the  sight,  with  lifted  hands. 

Gliding  through  Magellan's  Straits, 
Where  two  oceans  ope  their  gates, 
What  a  spectacle  awaits ! 

St.  Helena's  dungeon-keep 
Scowls  defiance  o'er  the  deep — 
There  a  Hero's  relics  sleep. 

The  immense  Pacific  smiles 
Round  ten  thousand  little  isles, 
— Haunts  of  violence  and  wiles. 

Who  he  was,  and  how  he  fell, 

Europe,  Asia,  Afric,  tell  ; 

On  that  theme  all  times  shall  dwell. 

But  the  powers  of  darkness  yield, 
For  the  cross  is  in  the  field, 
And  the  light  of  life  reveal'd. 

But,  henceforth,  till  nature  dies. 
These  three  simple  words  comprise 
All  the  future — "  Here  he  lies." 

Rays  from  rock  to  rock  it  darts. 
Conquers  adamantine  hearts. 
And  immortal  bliss  imparts. 

Mammon's  plague-ships  throng  the  waves , 

Oh  'twere  mercy  to  the  slaves 

Were  the  maws  of  sharks  their  graves ! 

North  and  west,  recedmg  far 
From  the  evening's  downward  star. 
Now  I  mount  Aurora's  car, — 

Not  for  all  the  gems  and  gold 

Which  thy  streams  and  mountains  hold, 

Or  for  which  thy  sons  are  sold, — 

Pale  Siberia's  deserts  shun. 

From  Karatschatka's  headlands  run, 

South  and  east,  to  meet  the  sun. 

Land  of  negroes  I  would  I  dare 
In  this  felon  trade  to  share. 
Or  its  infamy  to  spare. 

Jealous  China,  strange  Japan, 
With  bewilder'd  thought  I  scan, 
— They  are  but  dead  seas  of  man. 

Hercules,  thy  pillars  stand, 
Sentinels  of  sea  and  land  ; 
Cloud-capt  Atlas  towers  at  hand. 

Ages  in  succession  find 

Forms  unchanging,  stagnant  mind  ; 

And  the  same  they  leave  behind. 

Where,  at  Cato's  word  of  fate, 
Fell  the  Carthaginian  state. 
And  wliere  exiled  Marius  sate, — 

Lo !  the  eastern  Cyclades, 
Phoenix-nests,  and  halcyon  seas  ; 
But  I  tarry  not  with  these. 

Mark  the  dens  of  caitiff  Moors : 
Ha !  the  pirates  seize  the  oars — 
Fly  the  desecrated  shores. 

Pass  we  low  New-Holland's  shoals. 
Where  no  ample  river  rolls  ; 
— World  of  undiscover'd  souls ! 

Egypt's  hieroglyphic  realm 

Other  floods  than  Nile's  o'erwhelm — 

Slaves  tum'd  despots  hold  the  helm. 

Bring  them  forth — 'tis  Heaven's  decree  : 

Man,  assert  thy  dignity  ! 

Let  not  brutes  look  down  on  thee. 

Judah's  cities  are  forlorn, 
Lebanon  and  Carmel  shorn, 
Zion  trampled  dow  n  with  scorn. 

Either  India  next  is  seen, 

With  the  Ganges  stretch'd  between : 

Ah !  what  horrors  there  have  been ! 

Greece !  thine  ancient  lamp  is  spent ; 
Thou  art  thine  own  monument ; 
But  the  sepulchre  is  rent. 

War,  disguised  as  Commerce,  came  ; 
Britain,  carrjdng  sword  and  flame. 
Won  an  empire,  lost  her  name. 

And  a  wind  is  on  the  wing, 

At  whose  breath  new  heroes  spring. 

Sages  teach,  and  poets  sing. 

But  that  name  shall  be  restored, 
Law  ana  Justice  wield  her  sword, 
And  her  God  be  here  adored. 

Italy,  thy  beauties  shroud                              ' 
In  a  gorgeous  evening  cloud :                       | 
Thy  refulgent  head  is  bow'd.                       ; 

By  the  Gulf  of  Persia  sail, 
Where  the  true-love  nightingale 
Wooes  the  rose  in  every  vale. 

Rome,  in  ruins  lovely  still. 
From  her  Capitolian  hill 
Bids  thee,  mourner !  weep  thy  fill. 
376 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


193 


Yet  where  Roman  genius  reigns, 
Roman  blood  must  warm  the  veins ; 
— Look  well,  tyrants !  to  your  chains. 

Feudal  realm  of  old  romance ! 
Spain,  thy  lofty  front  advance, 
Grasp  thy  shield,  and  couch  thy  lance. 

At  the  fire-flash  of  thine  eye, 

Giant  Bigotry  shall  fly  ; 

At  thy  voice,  Oppression  die. 

Lusitania !  from  the  dust 

Shake  thy  locks  ;  thy  cause  is  just — 

Strike  for  freedom,  strike  and  trust. 

France !  I  hurry  from  thy  shore; 
Thou  art  not  the  France  of  yore  ; 
Thou  art  new-bom  France  no  more. 

Great  thou  wast,  and  who  like  thee  ? 
Then  mad-drunk  with  liberty  ; 
Now,  thou  'rt  neither  great  nor  free. 

Sweep  by  Holland,  like  the  blast; 
One  quick  glance  at  Denmark  cast, 
Sweden,  Russia ; — all  is  past 

Elbe  nor  Weser  tempt  my  stay ; 

Germany  !  beware  the  day 

When  thy  Schoolmen  bear  the  sway. 

Now  to  thee,  to  thee  I  fly, 
Fairest  Isle  beneath  the  sky. 
To  my  heart  as  in  mine  eye ! 

I  have  seen  them,  one  by  one, 
Every  shore  beneath  the  sun, 
And  my  voyage  now  is  done. 

While  I  bid  them  all  be  bless'd, 
Britain !  thou  'rt  my  home — my  rest ; 
My  own  land,  I  love  thee  best- 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  FATHERS. 


l-«^  Jews  occasionally  held  a  solemn  assembly  in  the  valley  of 
Jehosaphat,  the  ancient  burial-place  of  their  people.  They 
are  compelled  to  pay  a  heavy  tax  to  the  Mahometans  for  the 
privile{?e  of  mourning  in  stillness  at  the  sepulchres  of  their 
fathers. 


In  Babylon  they  sal  and  wept 

Down  by  the  river's  willovi^  side. 

And  when  the  breeze  their  harp-strings  swept, 

The  strings  of  breaking  hearts  replied : 

A  deeper  sorrow  now  they  hide ; 

No  Cyrus  comes  to  set  them  free 

From  ages  of  captivity. 

All  lands  are  Babylons  to  them, 
Exiles  and  fugitives  they  roam ; 
What  is  their  owti  Jerusalem  ? ' 


The  place  where  they  are  least  at  home ! 
Yet  hither  from  all  climes  they  come. 
And  pay  their  gold  for  leave  to  shed 
Tears  o'er  the  generations  fled. 

Around  th'  eternal  mountains  stand, 
With  Hinnom's  darkling  vale  between ; 
Old  Jordan  wanders  through  the  land. 
Blue  Carmel's  seaward  crest  is  seen ; 
And  Lebanon,  yet  sternly  green. 
Throws,  when  the  evening  sun  declines. 
Its  cedar  shades,  in  lengthening  lines. 

But,  ah !  for  ever  vanish'd  hence 
The  Temple  of  the  li\-ing  God, 
Once  Zion's  glory  and  defence — 
Now  mourn  beneath  th'  oppressor's  rod 
The  fields  where  faithful  Abraham  trod ; 
Where  Isaac  walk'd  by  twilight  gleam, 
And  Heaven  came  down  on  Jacob's  dream. 

For  ever  mingled  with  this  soil 
Those  armies  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 
That  conquer'd  Canaan,  shared  the  spoil, 
Quell'd  Moab's  pride,  storm'd  Midian's  posts, 
Spread  paleness  through  Philistia's  coasts. 
And  taught  the  foes,  whose  idols  fell, 
"  There  is  a  God  in  Israel." 

Now  David's  tabernacle  gone. 

What  mighty  builder  shall  restore  ? 

The  golden  throne  of  Solomon, 

And  ivory  palace,  are  no  more ; 

The  Psalmist's  song,  the  Preacher's  lore. 

Of  all  they  did,  alone  remain 

Unperish'd  trophies  of  their  reign. 

Holy  and  beautiful,  of  old, 

Was  Zion  'midst  her  princely  bowers  ; 

Besiegers  trembled  to  behold 

Bulwarks  that  set  at  nought  their  powers : 

Swept  from  the  earth  are  all  her  towers ; 

Nor  is  there — so  is  she  bereft — 

One  stone  upon  another  left.' 


1  [Though  it  is  hoped  that  the  preceding  stanzas  will  be  suf- 

hciently  intelligible  to  many  readers,  yet,  for  the  mformation  of 

48  2G2 


others,  a  few  brief  notices,  collected  from  the  travels  of  Sandys, 
Clarke,  Jowett,  and  others,  may  be  necessary.] — In  no  part  of 
the  world  are  the  Jews  more  degraded  and  oppressed  than  in 
Jerusalem,  where,  on  the  slightest  pretence,  and  by  the  most 
remorseless  cruelty,  money  is  extorted  from  them  — for  ex- 
ample, in  1824,  Rabbi  Mendel  was  dragged  from  his  bed,  with 
three  of  his  inmates,  and  imprisoned  till  he  had  paid  a  fine, 
amounting  to  37Z.  sterling,  on  a  charge  of  having  left  the  street- 
door  of  his  house  open.  Mr.  Jowett  says :  "  I  observed  as  we 
passed  through  the  Jewish  quarter,  and  upon  many  faces  in 
most  parts  of  Jerusalem,  a  timid  expression  of  countenance 
called  in  scripture  '  pining  away;^  with  a  curiosity  that  deshes 
to  know  everything  concerning  a  stranger,  there  is,  at  the  same 
time,  a  shrinkmg  away  from  the  curiosity  of  others."  He  adds, 
with  regard  to  the  Jews  in  this  their  native  city : — "  How  truly 
is  that  threat  accomplished,  'Thy  hfe  shall  hang  in  doubt  be- 
fore thee,  and  thou  shalt  fear  by  day  and  night,  and  shalt  have 
none  assurance  of  thy  life.'  Deut.  xxviii.  66." 

1  See  Psalm  xlviii,  lto5  and  12  to  13,  also  Lamentations,  iv. 
12.  "The  kings  of  the  earth,  and  all  the  inhabitants  of  th« 
world,  would  not  have  believed  that  the  adversary  and  the  ene- 
my should  have  entered  into  the  gates  of  Jerusalem."  Tliiswas 
said  of  the  destruction  of  the  city  by  Nebuchadnezzar.  On  its 
second  and  irrecoverable  destruction  by  Titus,  Josephus  says, 
that  the  Roman  Genfral,  on  viewing  the  stupendous  strengtli 
of  its  fortifications,  exclaimed,— We  have  surely  had  God  09 

377 


194 


MOiNTGOMERY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  very  site  whereon  she  stood, 
In  vain  the  foot,  the  eye  would  trace. 
Vengeance,  for  saints'  and  martyrs'  blood 
Her  walls  did  utterly  efface  ; ' 
Dungeons  and  dens  usurp  their  place ; 
The  Cross  and  Crescent  shine  afar,** 
But  where  is  Jacob's  natal  star  ? 

Still  inexterminable — still 

Devoted  to  their  mother-land, 

Her  offspring  haunt  the  temple-hill, 

Amidst  her  desecration  stand. 

And  bite  the  lip,  and  clench  the  hand : — 

To-day  in  that  lorn  vale'  they  weep, 

Where  patriarchs,  kings,  and  prophets  sleep. 

O,  what  a  spectacle  of  woe ! 

In  groups  they  settle  on  the  ground  ; 

Men,  women,  children,  gathering  slow, 

Sink  down  in  reverie  profound  ; 

There  is  no  voice,  nor  speech,  nor  sound — 

But  through  the  shuddering  frame  is  shown 

The  heart's  unutterable  groan. 

Entranced  they  sit,  nor  seem  to  breathe  ; 
Themselves  like  spectres  from  the  dead  ; 


our  side  in  this  war,  and  it  was  none  other  than  He  who  cast 
out  the  Jews  from  these  strong  holds;  for  what  could  the  hands 
of  men  and  the  force  of  machines  have  otherwise  done  against 
these  towers  1 

1  It  is  difficult,  indeed  impossible,  after  the  abomination  of 
desolation  has  for  so  many  centuries  been  laying  waste  the 
Holy  City,  to  ascertain  its  ancient  boundaries.  There  is  very 
little  reason  to  believe  that  the  localities  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
etc.,  overbuilt  with  churches,  and  visited  by  pilgrims  and  trav- 
ellers from  all  countries,  are  genuine ;  so  utterly  confounded  by 
undistinguishing  ravages  have  been  the  very  heights  on  which 
"  Jerusalem  was  builded  as  a  city  compact  together."  There 
is  nothing  that  strikes  the  stranger  with  more  astonishment  than 
the  magnificent  situation  of  Jerusalem,  with  the  mountains 
standing  round  about  it,  and  adorned  with  mosques,  churches 
and  convents,  as  seen  from  a  distance,  and  the  contrast  of  mean- 
ness and  misery  within  its  narrow,  dark,  and  filthy  streets, 
thronged  with  squalid  and  motley  inhabitants.  The  city  of 
palaces  seems  converted  into  a  den  of  thieves. 

2  The  mosque  of  Omar,  a  most  superb  structure,  with  its  blue 
dome  rising  above  all  the  adjacent  edifices,  stands  on  the  very 
site  of  the  demolished  Temple  of  God.  Within  the  court 
which  surrounds  it,  none  but  Mahometans,  under  pain  of  death, 
or  conversion  to  tlio  faith  of  the  false  prophut,  are  permitted  to 
enter.  There  is  a  tradition  that  the  possession  of  Uie  city  de- 
pends upon  the  unviolated  sanctity  of  this  place.  The  miserable 
remnant  of  Jews,  who  yet  linger  about  the  hill  of  Zion,  pay  a 
ta.\  for  permission  to  assemble  once  a  week  (on  Friday)  to  pray 
on  the  outside  of  this  usurped  seat  of  the  true  God,  on  a  spot 
near  the  place  where,  it  is  said,  that  the  holiest  of  holies  in  the 
ancient  temple  was  built. 

3  The  valley  of  Jehosaphat.  in  which  the  kings  of  Judah,  the 
prophets  and  the  illustrious  of  old,  are  supposed  to  have  been 
buried,  lies  to  the  east  and  north  of  Jerusalem.  It  is  traversed 
by  the  brook  Cedron  at  the  foot  of  the  mount  of  Olives;  but 
depending  for  its  stream  upon  the  uncertain  rains,  the  channel 
is  frequently  dry  in  the  summer  months.  Here  the  Jews  believe 
that  the  so.emnity  of  the  day  of  judgment  will  be  held,  on  the 
authority  of  the  prophet  Joel,  iii.  1  and  2.  "  For  behold,  in 
those  days  I  will  bring  again  the  captivity  of  Judah  and  Jeru- 
salem,— I  will  plead  with  them  there  for  my  people,  and  for  my 
heritage  Israel,  whom  they  have  scattered  among  the  nations, 
and  parted  my  land."  The  valley  of  Hinnom  is  to  the  south ; 
once  a  scene  of  beauty  and  fertility  with  its  groves  and  gardens, 
but  at  the  same  time  a  scene  of  tJie  most  atrocious  and  bloody 
idolatry,  when  infants  were  sacrificed  by  their  unnatural  parents 
to  Moloch.  Josiah  desecrated  it  by  overturning  the  shrines, 
cutting  down  the  groves,  and  burning  the  bones  of  the  priests 
upon  their  own  altars.    The  valley  afterwards  became  the 


Where,  shrined  in  rocks  above,  beneath 
With  clods  along  the  valley  spread. 
Their  ancestors,  each  in  his  bed, 
Shall  rest,  till,  at  the  Judgment-day, 
Death  and  the  grave  give  up  their  prey. 


Before  their  eyes,  as  in  a  gla 
Their  eyes  that  gaze  on  vacancy — 
Pageants  of  ancient  grandeur  pass ; 
But  "Ichabod"  '  on  all  they  see 
Brands  Israel's  foul  idolatry  : — 
Then,  last  and  worst,  and  sealing  all 
Their  crimes  and  sufferings — Salem's  fall. 

Nor  breeze,  nor  bird,  nor  palm-tree  stirs, 
Kedron's  unvvater'd  brook  is  dumb  ; 
But  through  that  glen  of  sepulchres 
Is  heard  the  city's  fervid  hum ; 
\'oice3  of  dogs  and  children  come ; 
Till,  loud  and  long,  the  Muedzin's'^  cry, 
From  Omar's  mosque,  peals  round  the  sky. 

Blight  through  their  veins  those  accents  send- 
In  agony  of  mute  despair, 
Their  garments  as  by  stealth  they  rend  ; 
They  pluck  unconsciously  their  hair; — 
This  is  the  Moslem's  hour  of  prayer ! 
'T  was  Judah's  once — but  fane  and  priest, 
Altar  and  sacrifice,  have  ceased. 

And  by  the  Gentiles  in  their  pride 
Jerusalem  is  trodden  down;' — 
"  How  long  ?  for  ever  wilt  thou  hide 
Thy  face,  O  Lord  !  for  ever  frown  ? 
Israel  was  once  thy  glorious  crown, 
In  sight  of  all  the  heathen  worn ; 
Now  from  thy  brow  indignant  torn. 

"  Zion,  forsaken  and  forgot, 
Hath  felt  thy  stroke,  and  owns  it  just; 
O  God,  our  God !  reject  her  not, 
Whose  sons  tal;e  pleasure  in  her  dust : 
How  is  the  fine  gold  dimm'd  with  rust ! 
The  city,  throned  in  gorgeous  state, 
How  doth  she  now  sit  desolate  I 

"  Where  is  thine  oath  to  David  sworn  ? 

We  by  the  winds  like  chaff  are  driven : 

Yet  '  unto  us  a  Child  is  born,' 

Yet  '  unto  us  a  Son  is  given ; ' 

His  throne  is  as  the  throne  of  Heaven — 

When  shall  he  come  to  our  release. 

The  mighty  God,  the  Prince  of  Peace  ? " 


burying-place  of  the  common  people,  and  under  the  name  of 
Tophet,  a  type  of  that  place  "where  the  worm  dieth  not,  and 
the  fire  is  not  quenched." 


1  Ichabod :  that  is,  "  Where  is  the  glory ' 


'  Th'te  is  no 


glory."  See  1  Samuel,  iv.  21.  "  Jerusalem  remembered  in  the 
days  of  her  atfliction  and  of  her  miseries  all  her  pleasant  things 
that  she  had  in  the  days  of  old,  when  her  people  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy,  and  none  did  help  her ;  the  adversaries 
saw  her,  and  did  mock  at  her  Sabbaths."  Lamentations,  i.  7. 

2  The  Muedzins  (.Muedkins)  are  criers,  with  clear  sonorous 
voices,  who  from  the  tops  of  the  mosques  call  the  people  to- 
gether at  the  hours  of  worship. 

3  Mr.  Jowett  says : — "  At  every  step  coming  forth  out  of  the 
city,  the  heart  is  reminded  of  that  prophecy,  accomplished  to 
the  letter — Jerusalem  shall  be  trodden  down  of  the  Gentiles  I 
All  the  streets  are  wretchedness;  and  the  houses  of  the  Jews 
more  especially  are  as  dunghills." 

378 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


195 


Thus  blind  with  unbeUef  they  cry ; 

But  hope  revisits  not  their  gloom ; 

Seal'd  are  the  words  of  prophecy, 

Seal'd  as  the  secrets  of  the  tomb. 

Where  all  is  dark — though  wild  flowers  bloora, 

Birds  sing,  streams  murmur,  heaven  above. 

And  earth  around,  are  life,  light,  love. 

The  sun  goes  dovm ;  the  mourning  crowds, 
Re-quicken'd,  as  from  slumber  start ; 
They  met  in  silence  here,  hke  clouds ; 


Like  clouds  in  silence  they  depart : 
Still  clings  this  thought  to  every  heart. 
Still  from  their  lips  escapes  in  sighs, 
"  By  whom  shall  Jacob  yet  arise  ? " 
By  whom  shall  Jacob  yet  arise  ? — 
Even  by  the  Power  that  wakes  the  dead ; 
He  whom  your  fathers  did  despise. 
He,  who  for  you  on  Calvary  bled. 
On  Zion  shall  his  ensign  spread — 
Captives !  by  all  the  world  enslaved, 
Know  your  Redeemer,  and  be  saved  ! 
379 


THE  END  OF  MONTGOMERY'S  WORKS. 


THE 


tw 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


•. 


€onUntfi. 


{The  Pieces  in  italics  are  by  the  Author's  Sister.) 


Pago 
MEMOIR  OF  CHARLES  LAMB v 

JOHN    WOODVIL,  A  TRAGEDY 1 

THE    WITCH,  A  DRAMATIC  SKETCH 16 

KHSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

\  Hester 16 

'  To  Charles  Lloyd,  an  imeipected  Visitor    .  17 

The  Three  Friends ib. 

To  a  River  in  which  a  Child  was  drowned  19 

^»The  Old  Familiar  Faces ib. 

'Hden i^- 

^  A  Vision  of  Repentance ib. 

Dialogue  between  a  Mother  and  Child  ....  20 

Queen  Oriana's  Dream ib. 

A  Ballad,  noting  the  Difference  of  Rich  and 
Poor,  in  the  ways  of  a  rich  Noble's  Palace 

and  a  poor  Workhouse 21 

Hypochondriacus ib. 

A  Farewell  to  Tobacco ib. 

To  T.  L.  H.  a  Child 22 

Ballad,  from  the  German 23 

David  in  the  Cave  of  Advllam ib- 

Salome i^- 

Lines  suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Two  Females 

by  Lionardo  Da  Vinci 

Lines,  on  the  same  Picture  being  removed  to 
make  place  for  a  Portrait  of  a  Lady  by 

Titian 

On  the  celebrated  picture  by  Lionardo  da 
Vinci,  called  the  Virgin  of  the  Rocks  .  . 


24 


} 


On  the  same ,1 

Childhood > 

The  Grandame '•. 

Tlie  Sabbath  Bells i 

Fancy  employed  on  Di\4ne  Subjects  .  .       ). 

Composed  at  Midnight >. 

Living  without  God  in  the  World 5 

On  an  Infant  dying  as  soon  as  born 

Verses  for  an  Album 

Quatrains  to  the  Editor  of  the  Everj'-day 

Book ? 

To  M.  C.  Bumey,  Esq.  on  dedicating  to  him 

the  Prose  Works  of  the  Author 

Angel  Help 

Sonnet  —  To  Miss  Kelly 

On  the  Sight  of  Swans  in  Ken- 
sington-Gardens     : 

. "  Was  it  some  sweet  device  ".  .  .  i 

•'  Methinks  how  dainty  sweet".  . 

"When  last  I  roved" 

"A  timid  grace  sits  trembling".  . 

"  If  from  my  Lips  " 

The  Family  Name 

To  John  Lamb,  Esq.  of  the  South- 
Sea-House    

"Oh !  I  could  laugh  to  hear".  .  .  i 

"We  were  two  pretty  babes"  .  . 

"They  talk  of  Time" 


The  Christening 


382 


jHemoitr  of  ©fta^vlcisji  aawid. 


*  vHARLES  Lamb,  though  less  esteemed  as  a  poet 
tn  as  a  writer  of  essays  and  sketches  of  human 
c.racter,  which  display  extraordinary  powers  of 
cicription  and  observation,  is  one  of  the  most 
ffuliar  and  original  characters  of  the  time.  His 
p  try  is  all  copied  from  the  Elizabethan  era  of 
inland, — or  rather  modelled  upon  the  style  of 
t  Elizabethan  writers,  for  his  matter  is  exclu 
||?ly  his  own ;  and  his  way  of  life,  like  that  of 
't  courtiers  and  literary  men  around  the  Maiden 
Xleen,  is  to  the  present  public  much  of  a  mystery, 
lis  known  that  he  was  born  in  London  about 
t  year  1775,  educated  at  the  Grammar  School 
o^hrist's  Hospital,  and  that  he  spent  his  years, 

■  i,to  a  very  recent  period,  in  fulfilling  the  duties 
di  clerk  in  the  Accomptant-General's  office  in 
t  India  House,  an  impediment  in  his  speech 
ting  incapacitated  him  for  a  situation  where 
Kcould  have  displayed  his  powers. 

''rom  the  earliest  time  of  his  life  Charles  Lamb 
^wed  a  strong  predisposition  for  literary  pur- 
fits.  With  his  fondness  for  these  the  active 
cies  of  his  situation  were  never  suffered  to 
rsrfere.  His  friends  were  nearly  all  selected 
fm  authors,  and  not  from  individuals  employed 

■  ibusiness  or  commerce.  In  early  life  his  inti- 
icies  and  friendships  were  principally  among 
tt  class  of  writers  designated  as  the  "  Lake 
I'Bts,'" — men  who  set  out  with  revolutionary 
jinciples  in  politics,  sonnetized  regicides,  and 
jnned  pantisocratic  societies  in  transatlantic 
(serts;  and  then  in  a  few  years  apostatized,  and 
hame  the  most  servile  tools  of  arbitrary  power. 
.1  so  Charles  Lamb.  While  it  does  not  appear 
It,  even  for  a  moment,  he  went  into  their  wild 
•  remes,  so  he  never  to  the  present  hour  desert- 
<  the  principles  with  which  he  began  life,  and 

ich,  at  between  fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age, 
1  has  lived  to  see  obtain  ground,  and  fix  them- 
tves  immutably  in  the  world.  Whatever  he 
IV  of  genius  in  these  writers  he  still  admits ; 
•ji  it  is  not  a  little  honorable  to  his  charity, 
It  with  most  of  his  lake  acquaintance  he  re- 


The  lake  poets  were  so  designated  because  they  af- 
l:ed  solitude  and  a  love  of  nature,  and  some  of  them 

k  up  their  residence  on  the  Lakes  of  Cumberland, 
hthey  was  their  leader. 


mains  on  terms  of  friendship,  himself  unshaken 
and  tmseduced  by  their  pernicious  example. 

In  1798,  Charles  Lamb  appeared  before  the 
public,  in  conjunction  with  his  friend  Charles 
Lloyd ;  and  the  volume  which  they  gave  to  the 
world  was  entitled  "  Blank  Verses."  A  "  Tale  ot 
Rosamund  Grey  and  Old  Blind  Margaret"  follow- 
ed, the  same  year ;  but  a  tragedy  entitled  "  John 
Woodvil,"  a  work  of  singular  power  and  beauty, 
which  came  out  in  1801,  may  be  said  to  have  es- 
tablished  the  writer's  fame.  This  tragedy  has  all 
the  faults  and  beauties  of  its  author's  style,  but  it 
never  has  been  popular,  it  being  a  great  misfortime 
of  the  writers  of  more  than  one  of  the  schools  of 
poetry  which  have  been  established  and  declined 
in  England  during  the  last  thirty  years,  that  their 
mannerism  has  prevented  their  becoming  riveted 
in  the  public  mind ;  a  sort  of  stiffness  and  mys. 
tery  too,  in  addition,  has  excluded  them  from  be- 
ing classed  among  those  poets  whose  verses  the 
simple  and  wayfaring,  the  child  and  the  unin- 
structed,  keep  perpetually  upon  their  lips.  The 
thousand  songs  of  our  writers  in  verse  of  past 
time  dwell  on  all  tongues,  with  the  Melodies  of 
Moore ;  but  who  learns  or  repeats  the  cumbrous 
verses  of  Wordsworth,  which  require  an  initia- 
tion  from  their  writer  to  comprehend  ?  Lamb  has 
written  some  beautiful  poetry,  as  close  as  pos- 
sible to  the  style  in  which  he  thinks  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher  would  Avrite  it,  or  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
or  any  of  the  poets  of  the  era  on  which  he  de- 
lights to  dwell,  and  with  the  characters  of  which 
he  loves  to  fancy  himself  communing. 

While  he  continued  his  acquaintance  with 
many  of  the  members  of  the  Lake  School,  most 
probably  from  early  association  and  that  noble 
principle  which  he  avows  of  setting  his  face 
against  the  too  prevalent  sin  of  estimating  a  man's 
intellect  by  reference  to  his  political  tenets,  an- 
other  school  of  poetry  arose  in  opposition  to  that 
of  the  Lakers.  The  latter  viewed  this  new  school 
with  bitter  hatred ;  but  though  opposed  in  moral, 
religious,  and  political  principles  to  his  early 
companions.  Lamb  became  intimate  among  and 
lives  on  terms  of  friendship  with  most  of  its  mem- 
bers, who  have  the  merit,  whatever  may  be  the 
opinion  of  their  doctrines,  of  far  greater  honestj 

383 


IV 


MEMOIR  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


and  consistency  of  principle  than  the  Lakers. — 
Their  talents  are  before  the  world.  To  this  new 
school  belonged  the  late  poet  Shelley,  whose 
lofty  powers  are  unquestionable ;  Keats,  i  Iso 
now  deceased;  and  Leigh  Hunt.  These  were 
generally  called  the  "  Cockney  "  school  by  their 
opponents.  Their  peculiar  style  of  writing  is 
getting  into  desuetude  among  that  portion  of  the 
community  with  which  it  was  once  popular: — 
wild  and  theoretic,  but  displaying  talent  amidst 
all,  the  fate  of  these  literary  schools  is  what  might 
be  expected,  when  they  carried  so  far  into  ex- 
tremes, opinions  and  systems  that  overstepped  tlie 
modesty  of  nature.  Charles  Lamb's  intrepid  re- 
sistance  to  despotism  in  the  republic  of  letters, 
did  him  infinite  honor;  and  he  never  would 
have  been  forgiven  by  the  "Lakers,"  had  not 
his  companionship  been  too  interesting  and  his 
friendship  too  honorable,  to  allow  his  early  as- 
sociates  to  forego  either  in  revenge  for  his  liber- 
ality.  Lamb  is  independent  in  property,  and 
beyond  any  interested  motives  in  his  conduct; 
political  subserviency  he  would  look  upon  with 
scorn,  for  he  would  purchase  nothing  with  the 
sacrifice  of  one  iota  of  free  thought  or  expression. 
It  was  his  lofty  abhorrence  of  calculating  a  wri- 
ter's talents  by  his  political  creed,  that  made 
Charles  Lamb  alike  a  contributor  to  the  "  Lon- 
don Magazine,"  the  "New  Monthl}'^,"  and  "Black- 
wood's," though  each  publication  supported  op- 
posite political  parties. 

Besides  the  poetical  works  already  enumerat- 
ed, Charles  Lamb  has  published,  from  time  to 
time, — " Tales  from  Shakspeare,"  "The  Adven- 
tures of  Ulysses,"  "  Specimens  of  English  Dra- 
matic Poetry,  with  Notes,  etc."  "  Essays,"  and  an 

unsuccessful  farce  called  "  Mr.  H ,"  brought 

out  at  Drury-Lane,  in  1806.  Having  scattered  his 
writings  about  anonymously  in  periodical  works, 
it  was  not  imtil  1818  that  the  first  collection  of 
them  was  made.  Lamb  is  utterly  careless  of 
fame,  and  looks  upon  ambition  with  the  eye  of  a 
philosopher.  His  works,  though  so  various,  are 
original,  and  his  essays  and  criticisms  equal  to 
any  of  modern  times ;  perhaps  the  first  are  de- 
cidedly superior  to  any  that  have  been  produced 
by  contemporaries.  His  sketches  published  under 
the  signature  of  "  Elia"  are  charming  specimens 
of  this  kind ;  and  his  remarks  on  the  works  of  i 
the  contemporaries  of  Shakspeare  gave  a  new 
tone  to  the  criticism  of  the  day,  and  even  were 
the  means  of  re\-iving  and  bringing  into  general 
estimation  that  great  body  of  dramatists.  They 
introduced  the  public,  as  it  were,  into  the  very 
literary  atmosphere  that  Shakspeare  inhaled. — 
Of  Charles  Lamb's  comprehension  of  the  finest 
and  subtlest  things  in  a  great  writer,  Leigh  Hunt 
says,  that  he  "  would  have  been  worthy  of  hear- 


ing Shakspeare  read  one  of  his  scenes  to  hij 
hot  from  the  brain." 

The  conversation  of  Charles  Lamb  is  very  pre 
nant  with  matter  from  his  extensive  reading,  pj 
ticularly  on  those  subjects  which  are  his  hobbif 
It  would  be  no  great  difficulty,  in  this  book-ma 
ing  age,  to  compile  one  out  of  the  conversatio 
of  an  evening  or  two  spent  in  his  society.   He 
a  great  humorist,  even  in  his  most  serious  opi 
ions,  and  displays  at  times  a  fund  of  drollery, 
everything,  however,  even  in  his  philosophy  a 
his  jokes,  humanity  is  paramount ;  and  no  m 
exists  who  believes  more  devoutly  in  the  axi( 
of  Shakspeare,  tliat  "  there  is  a  soul  of  goodnc 
in  things  evil."    He  is  the  least  obtrusive  man 
existence,  and  lives  amid  the  dreams  of  the  p; 
time.   Antiquity  is  his  idol ;  he  cannot  fling  hi 
self  forward  into  the  future,  and  build  his  ima 
of  poetic  glory  in  an  approaching  optimism : 
things;   he   is   content  to  think  tlie   past  g(' 
enough  for  his  quiet  unambitious  spirit,  and] 
desire  to  re-embody  the  dust  which  he  worshi' 
All  he  does  is  in  a  calm  atmosphere,  musing 
bygone  things.   Obscure  or  dim  as  these  may 
they  lose  none  of  their  charms  for  him.    He  c 
likes  novelty  of  every  kind,  and  has  no  vul| 
artifices  or  cant  about  him.    To  describe  an 
building,  portrait,  or  his  school-days  at  Chri; 
Hospital,  is  his  greatest  enjoyment. — In  readi: 
it  is  the  same.    Few  of  the  books  on  which 
delights  to  dwell  have  been  written  since  the  fi 
year  of  the  last  century.    The  English  auth( 
down  to  the  year  1700,  are  his  revel, — not  t 
he  is  ignorant  of  the  productions  of  more  reci 
writers,  but  they  have  not  the  same  hold  on 
mind,  because  they  do  not  belong  to  his  pecul 
time,  to  the  day  with  which  his  spirit  claims  i 
dred.    Over  old  John  Bunyan  he  will  expati 
by  the  hour,  or  on  Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Mel 
choly."   All  around, him  is  tempered  with  a  si 
plicity  peculiarly  his  own,  and  the  same  thid| 
observable  in  his  manners,  for  he  is  remarka 
plain,  with  somewhat  of  singularity  in  his  < 
riage.    He  is  a  connoisseur  in  pictures  of 
culiar  class ;  but  his  knowledge  of  art  is  c 
fined,  like  his  favorite  study  of  poetry,   to    > 
particular  line.   He  is  in  every  sense  of  the  wi 
a  "  Londoner,"  and  lives  among  its  old  localitl 
connecting  them  with  associations  of  past  thirl 
which  he  would  not  part  with  for  any  eart' 
consideration.  An  old  building,  a  spot  in  a  cor  t 
of  a  street,  consecrated  by  tale  or  romance,  / 
real  events,  departed  genius,  or  lofty  characte; » 
to  him  fairy-land. 

Such  a  temperament  may  well  be  supposec  J 

shrink  from  everything  meretricious  and  gai  • 

and  accordingly  Charles  Lamb  is  utterly  d€  - 

tute  of  presumption  and  intrusion,  of  everyth  I 

■*'  384 


MEMOIR  OF  CHARLES  LAMB. 


jonnected  with  show  or  fashion ;  he  is  too  proud 
o  be  indebted  to  tliat  which  he  holds  in  scorn. 
3is  ideas  seem  to  be  his  realities,  and  the  dusky 
shadow  of  a  bygone  form  is  more  agreeable  to  him 
\o  contemplate  than  the  greatest  and,  worldly- 
steemed,  most  glorious  thing.  In  abstruse  stu- 
lies  he  has  never  made  progress ;  not  because  he 
las  not  the  power,  but  because  they  do  not  har- 
nonize  with  the  pursuits  to  which  his  peculiar 
nind  can  alone  assimilate.  On  his  favorite  topics 
le  is  enthusiastic,  and  he  seems  to  Avish  to  exact 

like  enthusiasm  from  others.  He  must  be  court- 
d  to  friendship,  rather  than  expected  to  make 
he  first  advances,  but  his  friendship  is  the  sotmd- 
r  for  the  slowness  with  which  it  is  founded.  His 
etiring  nature,  and  little  fondness  for  display 

fore  the  public,  or,  in  truth,  his  contempt  for 
ime,  wotdd,  but  for  the  publication  of  his  occa- 
ional  pieces  in  different  periodical  publications, 
;ave  prevented  his  being  known  extensively  as 
n  essayist.  He  would  hardly  ever  else  have 
roubled  himself  to  publish  a  volume  of  them 
ther;  for  all  he  has  done  is  by  detached 
IForts. 

In  person  Charles  Lamb  is  diminutive,  and  ap- 
arently  feeble,  yet  his  head  is  of  the  finest  and 


most  intellectual  cast,  of  which  Titian  would  have 
painted  a  most  Titianic  picture,  for  it  seems  of 
the  order  which  that  great  artist  preferred  to 
represent.  Lamb  is  a  great  smoker,  and  not  only  , 
inhales  the  fumes  of  tooacco  that  way,  but  takes 
immoderate  quantities  of  snuff.  In  reading,  it  is 
singular  that  he  hesitates  much,  though  his  speech 
is  fluent,  and  exhibits  no  signs  of  halting ;  and 
with  a  friend  of  congenial  temper,  he  will  sit  in 
discourse  far  into  the  morning.  His  residence  is 
close  to  the  New  River  at  Islington,  where,  as 
Churchill  says — 

City  swains  in  lap  of  dullness  dream. 
His  only  living  relative,  a  maiden  sister,  lives 
with  him,  and  she  too  possesses  strong  intellect, 
and  a  heart  the  counterpart  of  his  own  in  hu- 
manity. They  are  devotedly  attached  to  each 
other,  and  the  next  best  thing  to  reading  a  book 
from  the  pen  of  Charles  Lamb,  is  the  listening  to 
a  conversation  between  him  and  his  sister. i 


1  This  lady  is  the  author  of  several  pieces  given  in  the 
following  pa;?es  amongst  her  brother's  works,  with  which 
they  have  always  been  published.  She  has  also  written 
some  works  for  youth,  such  as,  "  Mrs.  Leicester's  School," 
12mo  1808 ;  and  "  Poetry  for  Children,"  12mo  1809. 

385 


49 


2H 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


^M^  ai 


<^ 


DEDICATION. 

TO  S.  T.  COLERIDGE,  ESa 

My  Dear  Coleridge, 

You  will  smile  to  see  the  slender  labors  of  your  friend  designated  by  the  title  of  WorJis ;  but  such  was 
the  wish  of  the  gentlemen  who  have  kindly  undertaken  the  trouble  of  collecting  them,  and  from  their 
judgment  could  be  no  appeal. 

It  would  be  a  kind  of  disloyalty  to  offer  to  any  but  yourself  a  volume  containing  the  early  pieces,  which 
were  first  pubKshed  among  your  poems,  and  were  fairly  derivatives  from  you  and  them.  My  friend  Lloyd 
and  myself  came  into  our  first  battle  (authorship  is  a  sort  of  warfare)  under  cover  of  the  greater  Ajax. 
How  this  association,  which  shall  always  be  a  dear  and  proud  recollection  to  me,  came  to  be  broken, — 
who  snapped  the  three-fold  cord, — whether  yourself  (but  I  know-  that  was  not  the  case)  grew  ashamed  of 
your  former  companions, — or  whether  (which  is  by  much  the  more  probable)  some  ungracious  bookseller 
was  author  of  the  separation, — I  cannot  tell ; — but  wanting  the  support  of  your  friendly  elm  (I  speak  for 
myself),  my  vine  has,  since  that  time,  put  forth  few*  or  no  fruits ;  the  sap  (if  ever  it  had  any)  has  become, 
in  a  manner,  dried  up  and  extinct. 

Am  I  right  in  assuming  this  as  the  cause  ?  or  is  it  that,  as  years  come  upon  us  (except  with  some  more 
healthy  happy  spirits),  life  itself  loses  much  of  its  Poetry  for  us  ?  we  transcribe  but  what  we  read  in  the 
great  volume  of  nature ;  and,  as  the  characters  grow  dim,  we  turn  off,  and  look  another  way.  You  your- 
self write  no  Christabels,  nor  Ancient  Mariners,  now. 

Some  of  the  Sonnets,  which  shall  be  carelessly  turned  over  by  the  general  reader,  may  haply  awaken 
in  you  remembrances,  which  I  should  be  sorry  should  be  ever  totally  extinct — the  memory 

Of  summer  days  and  of  delightful  years — 
even  so  far  back  as  to  those  old  suppers  at  our  old***** Inn, — when  life  was  fresh,  and  topics  exhaustless 
— and  you  first  kindled  in  me,  if  not  the  power,  yet  the  love  of  poetry,  and  beauty,  and  kindliness. — 

What  words  have  I  heard 
Spoke  at  the  Mermaid ! 

The  world  has  given  you  many  a  shrewd  nip  and  gird  since  that  time ;  but  either  my  eyes  are  grown 
dimmer,  or  my  old  friend  is  the  same,  who  stood  before  me  three-and-twenty  years  ago — his  hair  a  little 
confessing  the  hand  of  time,  but  still  shrouding  the  same  capacious  brain, — his  heart  not  altered,  scarcely 
where  it  "  alteration  finds." 

One  piece,  Coleridge,  I  have  ventured  to  publish  in  its  original  form,  though  I  have  heard  you  complain 
of  a  certain  over-imitation  of  the  antique  in  the  style.  If  I  could  see  any  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  objec- 
tion, without  rewriting  it  entirely,  I  would  make  some  sacrifices.  But  when  I  wTOte  John  Woodvil,  I  never 
proposed  to  myself  any  distinct  deviation  from  common  English.  I  had  been  newly  initiated  in  the  writings 
of  our  elder  dramatists ;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger,  were  then  a  first  love;  and  from  what  I 
was  so  freshly  conversant  in,  W'hat  wonder  if  my  language  imperceptibly  took  a  tinge  ?  The  very  time, 
which  I  had  chosen  for  my  story,  that  which  immediately  followed  the  Restoration,  seemed  to  require,  in 
an  English  play,  that  the  English  should  be  of  rather  an  older  cast,  than  that  of  the  precise  year  in  which 
it  happened  to  be  written.  I  wish  it  had  not  some  faults  which  I  can  less  vindicate  than  the  language. 
I  remain,  My  dear  Coleridge,  Your's,  with  imabated  esteem, 

C.  LAMB. 


A  TRAGEDY. 


CHARACTERS. 


Sir  Walter  Woodvil. 

John, 

Simon, 

LOVEL, 

Gray, 


his  sons. 


>  pretended  friends  of  John. 


Sandford,  SirWalter'sold  steward. 
Margaret,  orphan  ivard  of  Sir  Walter. 
Four  Gentlemen,  John's  riotous  companions. 
Servants 

Scene — fcrr  the  most  part  at  Sir  Walter's  mansion  m 

Devonshire  ;  at  other  times  in  the  forest  of 

Sherwood.   Time — soon  after  the 

Restoration. 

387 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Servants^  Apartment  in  Woodvil  Hall 

Servants  drinking — Time^  the  morning. 

A  Song,  by  Daniel. 
"  When  iJie  King  enjoys  his  own  again." 

PETER. 

A  delicate  song.    Where  didst  learn  it,  fellow  ? 

DANIEL. 

Even  there,  where  thou  learnest  thy  oaths  and  thy 
politics — at  our  master's  table. — Where  else  should  a 
serving-man  pick  up  his  poor  accomplishments  ? 

MARTIN. 

Well  spoken,  Daniel.  O  rare  Daniel ! — his  oaths 
and  his  politics!  excellent! 

FRANCIS. 

And  where  did'st  pick  up  thy  knavery,  Daniel  ? 

PETER. 

That  came  to  him  by  inheritance.  His  family  have 
supplied  the  shire  of  Devon,  time  out  of  mind,  with 
good  thieves  and  bad  serving-men.  All  of  his  race 
have  come  into  the  world  without  their  conscience. 

MARTIN. 

Good  thieves,  and  bad  serving-men !  Better  and 
better.  I  marvel  what  Daniel  halh  got  to  say  in  reply. 

DANIEL. 

I  marvel  more  when  thou  Avilt  say  anything  to  the 
purpose,  thou  shallow  serving-man,  whose  swiftest 
conceit  carries  thee  no  higher  than  to  apprehend  with 
difficulty  the  stale  jests  of  us  thy  compeers.  When 
wast  ever  known  to  club  thy  own  particular  jest 
among  us  ? 

MARTIN. 

Most  unkind  Daniel,  to  speak  such  biting  things  of 
me ! 

FRANCIS. 

See — if  he  hath  not  brought  tears  into  the  poor 
fellow's  eyes  with  the  saltness  of  his  rebuke. 

DANIEL. 

No  offence,  brother  Martin — T  meant  none.  'T  is 
true.  Heaven  gives  gifts,  and  withholds  them.  It  has 
been  pleased  to  bestow  upon  me  a  nimble  invention 
to  the  manufacture  of  a  jest;  and  uf)on  thee,  Martin, 
an  indifferent  bad  capacity  to  understand  my  meaning. 

MARTIN. 

Is  that  all  ?  I  am  content.   Here 's  ray  hand. 

FRANCIS. 

Well,  I  like  a  little  innocent  mirth  myself,  but 
never  could  endure  bawdrj^ 

DANIEL. 

Quot  homines  tot  nententice. 

MARTIN. 

And  what  is  that  ? 

DANIEL. 

'T  is  Greek,  and  argues  difference  of  opinion. 

MARTIN. 

I  hope  there  is  none  between  us. 

DANIEL. 

Here 's  to  thee,  brother  Martin.  [Drinks. 


MARTIN. 

And  to  thee,  Daniel.  [Drinks 

FRANCIS. 

And  to  thee,  Peter.  [Drinks 

PETER. 

Thank  you,  Francia.   And  here's  to  thee.  [Drinks 

MARTIN. 

I  shall  be  fuddled  anon. 

DANIEL. 

And  drunkenness  I  hold  to  be  a  very  despicable  vice. 

ALL. 

O!  a  shocking  vice.  [They  drink  round 

PETER. 

Inasmuch  as  it  taketh  away  the  imderstanding. 

DANIEL. 

And  makes  the  eyes  red. 

PETER. 

And  the  tongue  to  stammer. 

DANIEL. 

And  to  blab  out  secrets. 
[During  this  conversation  they  continue  drinking. 

PETER. 

Some  men  do  not  know  an  enemy  from  a  friend 
when  they  are  drunk. 

DANIEL. 

Certainly  sobriety  is  the  health  of  the  soul. 

MARTIV. 

Now  I  know  I  am  going  to  be  drunk. 

DANIEL. 

IIow  canst  tell,  dry-bones  ? 

MARTIN. 

Because  I  begin  to  be  melancholy.  That's  always 
a  sign. 

FRANCIS. 

Take  care  of  Martin,  he'll  topple  off  his  seat  else. 
[Martin  drops  asleep. 

PETER. 

Times  are  greatly  altered,  since  young  master  took 
upon  himself  the  government  of  this  household. 

ALL. 

Greatly  altered. 

FRANCIS. 

I  think  everj'thing  be  altered  for  the  better  since 
His  Majesty's  blessed  restoration. 

PETER. 

In  Sir  Walter's  days  there  was  no  encouragement  i 
given  to  good  house-keeping. 

ALL. 

None.  [ 

DANIEL 

For  instance,  no  possibility  of  getting  drunk  before 
two  in  the  afternoon. 

PETER. 

Every  man  his  allowance  of  ale  at  breakfast — his 
quart! 

ALL. 

A  quart  I !  [In  derision. 

DANIEL. 

Nothing  left  to  our  own  sweet  discretions. 

PETER. 

Whereby  it  may  appear,  we  were  treated  more 
like  beasts  than  what  we  were — discreet  and  reason- 
able serving-men. 

ALL. 

Like  beasts. 


1 


JOHN  W00D\1L. 


[Aside. 


5IARTIN  {opening  his  eyes). 
lake  beasts. 

DANIEL. 

To  sleep,  wag-tail ! 

FRANCIS. 

I  marvel  all  this  while  where  the  old  gentleman 
has  found  means  to  secrete  himself.  It  seems  no 
man  has  heard  of  him  since  the  day  of  the  King's 
return.  Can  any  tell  why  our  young  master,  being 
favored  by  the  court,  should  not  have  interest  to  pro- 
cure his  father's  pardon  ? 

DANIEL. 

Marry,  I  think  't  is  the  obstinacy  of  the  old  Knight, 
that  will  not  be  beholden  to  the  court  for  his  safety. 

MARTIN. 

Now  that  is  wilful. 

FRANCIS. 

But  can  any  tell  me  the  place  of  his  concealment? 

PETER. 

That  cannot  I  ,■  but  I  have  my  conjectures. 

DANIEL. 

Two  hundred  pounds,  as  I  hear,  to  the  man  that 
shall  apprehend  him. 

FRANCIS. 

Well,  I  have  my  suspicions. 

PETER. 

And  so  have  I. 

MARTIN. 

And  I  can  keep  a  secret. 

FRANCIS  (to  Peter). 
Warwickshire,  you  mean. 

PETER. 

Perhaps  not. 

FRANCIS. 

Nearer  perhaps. 

PETER. 

I  say  nothing 

DANIEL. 

I  hope  there  is  none  in  this  company  would  be 
mean  enough  to  betray  him. 

ALL. 

0  Lord  I  surely  not. 

[They  drink  to  Sir  Walter's  safety. 

FRANCIS. 

1  have  often  wondered  how  our  master  came  to 
be  excepted  by  name  in  the  late  Act  of  Oblivion. 

DANIEL. 

Shall  I  tell  the  reason  ? 

ALL. 

Ay,  do. 

DANIEL. 

'T  is  thought  he  is  no  great  friend  to  the  present 
happy  establishment. 

ALL. 

0!  monstrous! 

PETER. 

Fellow-servants,  a  thought  strikes  me. — Do  we,  or 
do  we  not,  come  under  the  penalties  of  the  treason- 
act,  by  reason  of  our  being  privy  to  this  man's  con- 
cealment ? 

ALL. 

Truly,  a  sad  consideration. 

To  them  enters  Sandford  sudderdy. 

^  SANDFORD. 

You  well-fed  and  unprofitable  grooms, 
Maintained  for  state,  not  use  ; 

2H2 


You  lazy  feasters  at  another's  cost, 

That  eat  like  maggots  into  an  estate. 

And  do  as  little  work. 

Being  indeed  but  foul  excrescences. 

And  no  just  parts  in  a  well-order'd  family ; 

You  base  and  rascal  imitators. 

Who  act  up  to  the  height  your  master's  "\"ices, 

But  cannot  read  his  virtues  in  your  bond : 

Which  of  you,  as  I  enter'd,  spake  of  betraying  ? 

Was  it  you,  or  you,  or,  thin-face,  was  it  you  ? 

MARTIN. 

Whom  does  he  call  thin-face  ? 

SANDFORD. 

No  prating,  loon,  but  tell  me  who  he  was, 

That  I  may  brain  the  villain  witli  ray  staff; 

That  seeks  Sir  Walter's  life  ? 

You  miserable  men, 

With  minds  more  slavish  than  your  slave's  estate, 

Have  you  that  noble  bounty  so  forgot. 

Which  took  you  from  the  looms,  and  from  the  plows 

Which  better  had  ye  follow'd,  fed  ye,  clothed  ye. 

And  entertain'd  ye  in  a  worthy  service. 

Where  your  best  wages  was  the  world's  repute. 

That  thus  ye  seek  his  life,  by  whom  ye  live  ? 

Have  you  iforgot,  too. 

How  often  in  old  times 

Your  drunlven  mirths  have  stunn'd  day's  sober  ears. 

Carousing  full  cups  to  Sir  Walter's  health  ? — 

Whom  now  ye  would  betray,  but  that  he  lies 

Out  of  the  reach  of  your  poor  treacheries. 

This  learn  from  me. 

Our  master's  secret  sleeps  with  trustier  tongues. 

Than  will  unlock  themselves  to  carles  like  you. 

Go,  get  you  gone,  you  knaves.  Who  stirs  ?  this  staff 

Shall  teach  you  better  manners  else. 

ALL. 

Well,  we  are  going. 

SANDFORD. 

And  quickly  too :  ye  had  better,  for  I  see 
Young  mistress  Margaret  coming  this  way. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Sand]^ ord. 

Enter  Margarkt,  as  in  a  fright,  pursued  by  a  Gen- 
tleman, who,  seeing  Sandford,  retires  muttering  a 
curse. 

Sandford,  Margaret. 

sandford. 
Good  morrow  to  my  fair  mistress.   'T  was  a  chance 
I  saw  you,  lady,  so  intent  was  I 
On  chiding  hence  these  graceless  serving-men. 
Who  cannot  break  their  fast  at  morning  meals 
Without  debauch  and  mistimed  riotings. 
This  house  hath  been  a  scene  of  nothing  else 
But  atheist  riot  and  profane  excess. 
Since  ray  old  master  quitted  all  his  rights  here. 

MARGARET. 

Each  day  I  endure  fresh  insult  from  the  scorn 
Of  W^oodvil's  friends,  the  uncivil  jests, 
And  free  discourses,  of  the  dissolute  men 
That  haunt  this  mansion,  making  me  their  mirtL 

SANDFORD. 

Does  my  young  master  know  of  these  affronts  ? 

■  MARGARET. 

I  cannot  tell.     Perhaps  he  has  not  been  told ; 
Perhaps  he  might  have  seen  them  if  he  would. 
I  have  known  him  more  quick-sighted.  Let  that  pass. 

389 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  things  seem  changed,  I  think.     I  had  a  friend 

(I  can't  but  weep  to  think  him  alter'd  too), 

These  things  are  best  forgotten ;  but  I  knew 

A  man,  a  young  man,  young,  and  full  of  honor, 

That  would  have  pick'd  a  quarrel  for  a  straw, 

And  fought  it  out  to  the  extremity, 

E'en  with  the  dearest  friend  he  had  alive, 

On  but  a  bare  surmise,  a  possibility. 

That  Margaret  had  suffer'd  an  affront. 

Some  are  too  tame,  that  were  too  splenetic  once. 

SANDFORD. 

'T  were  best  he  should  be  told  of  these  affronts. 

MARGARET. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  his  father's  friend, 

Sir  Walter's  orphan-ward. 

I  am  not  his  servant-maid,  that  I  should  wait 

The  opportunity  of  a  gracious  hearing. 

Inquire  the  times  and  seasons  when  to  put 

My  peevish  prayer  up  at  young  Woodvil's  feet, 

And  sue  to  him  for  slow  redress,  who  was 

Himself  a  suitor  late  to  Margaret. 

I  am  somewhat  proud  :  and  Woodvil  taught  me  pride. 

I  was  his  favorite  once,  his  playfellow  in  infancy. 

And  joyful  mistress  of  his  youth. 

None  once  so  pleasant  in  his  eyes  as  Margaret : 

His  conscience,  his  religion,  Margaret  was, 

His  dear  heart's  confessor,  a  heart  within  that  heart, 

And  all  dear  things  summ'd  up  in  her  alone. 

As  Margaret  smiled  or  frown'd,  John  lived  or  died: 

His  dress,  speech,  gesture,  studies,  friendships,  all 

Being  fashion'd  to  her  liking. 

His  flatteries  taught  me  first  this  self-esteem. 

His  flatteries  and  caresses,  while  he  loved. 

The  world  esteem'd  her  happy,  who  had  won 

His  heart,  who  won  all  hearts ; 

And  ladies  envied  me  the  love  of  Woodvil. 

SANDFORD. 

He  doth  aflfect  the  courtier's  life  too  much, 

Whose  art  is  to  forget. 

And  that  has  wrought  this  seeming  change  in  him. 

That  was  by  nature  noble. 

'T  is  these  court-plagues,  that  swarm  about  our  house, 

Have  done  the  mischief,  making  his  fancy  giddy 

With  images  of  state,  preferment,  place. 

Tainting  his  generous  spirit  with  ambition. 

MARGARET. 

I  know  not  how  it  is ; 

A  cold  protector  is  John  grown  to  me. 

The  mistress,  and  presumptive  wife,  of  Woodvil 

Can  never  sloop  so  low  to  supplicate 

A  man,  her  equal,  to  redress  those  wrongs, 

Which  he  was  bound  first  to  prevent ; 

But  which  his  own  neglects  have  sanction'd  rather, 

Both  sanction'd  and  provoked  :  a  mark'd  neglect, 

And  strangeness  fast'ning  bitter  on  his  love. 

His  love  which  long  has  been  upon  the  wane. 

For  me,  I  am  determined  what  to  do : 

To  leave  this  house  this  night,  and  lukewarm  John, 

And  trust  for  food  to  the  earth  and  Providence. 

SANDFORD. 

0  lady,  have  a  care 

Of  these  indefinite  and  spleen-bred  resolves. 

You  know  not  half  the  dangers  that  attend 

Upon  a  life  of  wandering,  which  your  thoughts  now, 

Feeling  the  swellings  of  a  lofty  anger, 

To  your  abused  fancy,  as  't  is  likely, 


Portray  without  its  terrors,  painting  lies 
And  representmeiits  of  fallacious  liberty — 
You  know  not  what  it  is  to  leave  the  roof  that  shel  | 
ters  you. 

MARGARET. 

I  have  thought  on  every  possible  event. 

The  dangers  and  discouragements  you  speak  of, 

Even  till  my  woman's  heart  hath  ceased  to  fear  them  i 

And  cowardice  grows  enamour'd  of  rare  accidents. 

Nor  am  I  so  unfumish'd,  as  you  think, 

Of  practicable  schemes. 

SANDFORD. 

Now  God  forbid ;  think  twice  of  this,  dear  lady. 

MARGARET. 

I  pray  you  spare  me,  Mr.  Sand  ford. 

And  once  for  all  believe,  nothing  can  shake  my  purpose. 

SANDFORD. 

But  what  course  have  you  thought  on  ? 

MARGARET. 

To  seek  Sir  Vv^alter  in  the  forest  of  Sherwood. 

I  have  letters  from  young  Simon, 

Acquainting  me  with  all  the  circumstances 

Of  their  concealment,  place,  and  manner  of  life, 

And  the  merry  hours  they  spend  in  the  green  haunts 

Of  Sherwood,  nigh  which  place  they  have  ta'en  ahouse 

In  the  town  of  Nottingham,  and  pass  for  foreigners. 

Wearing  the  dress  of  JPrenchmen. — 

All  which  I  have  perused  with  so  attent 

And  child-like  longings,  that  to  my  doting  ears 

Two  sounds  now  seem  like  one. 

One  meaning  in  two  words,  Sherwood  and  Liberty 

And,  gentle  Mr.  Sandford, 

'T  is  you  that  must  provide  now 

The  means  of  my  departure,  which  for  safety 

Must  be  in  boy's  apparel. 

SANDFORD. 

Since  you  will  have  it  so, 

(My  careful  age  trembles  at  all  may  happen), 

I  will  engage  to  furnish  you  : 

I  have  the  keys  of  the  wardrobe,  and  can  fit  you 

With  garments  to  your  size. 

I  know  a  suit 

Of  lively  Lincoln  green,  that  shall  much  grace  you 

In  the  wear,  being  glossy  fresh,  and  Avorn  but  seldom. 

Young  Stephen  Woodvil  wore  them,  while  he  lived 

I  have  the  keys  of  all  this  house  and  passages. 

And  ere  day-break  will  rise  and  let  you  forth. 

What  things  soe'eryou  have  need  of  I  can  furnish  you. 

And  will  provide  a  horse  and  trusty  guide, 

To  bear  you  on  your  way  to  Nottingham. 

MARGARET. 

That  once  this  day  and  night  were  fairly  past ! 
For  then  I  '11  bid  this  house  and  love  farewell , 
Farewell,  sweet  Devon  ;  farewell,  lukewarm  John , 
For  with  the  morning's  light  will  Margaret  be  gone. 
Thanks,  courteous  Mr.  Sandford. — 

[Exeunt  divers  vxiys. 


ACT  n. 

SCENE  I. 

An  apartment  in  Woodvil  Hall. 
John  Woodvil — alone. 
(Reading  Parts  of  a  Letter.) 
'  When  Love  grows  cold,  and  indifference  has  usurp*  < 

390 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


ed  upon  old  esteem,  it  is  no  marvel  if  the  world 
begin  to  account  that  dependence,  which  hitherto  has 
been  esteemed  honorable  shelter.  The  course  I  have 
taken  (in  leaving  this  house,  not  easily  v^rought  there- 
unto), seemed  to  me  best  for  the  once-for-all  releasing 
of  yourself  (who  in  times  past  have  deserved  well 
of  me)  from  the  now  daily,  and  not-to-be-endured, 
tribute  of  forced  love,  and  ill-dissembled  reluctance 
of  affection. 

"  Margaret  " 

Gone !  gone !  my  girl  ?  so  hasty,  Margaret ! 
And  never  a  kiss  at  parting  ?  shallow  loves, 
And  likings  of  a  ten  days'  growth,  use  courtesies, 
And  show  red  eyes  at  parting.  Who  bids  "farewell" 
In  the  same  tone  he  cries  "  God  speed  you,  Sir  ?" 
Or  tells  of  joyful  victories  at  sea, 
Where  he  hath  ventures  ?  does  not  rather  muffle 
His  organs  to  emit  a  leaden  sound, 
To  suit  the  melancholy  dull  "  farewell," 
Which  they  in  Heaven  not  use  ? — 
So  peevish,  Margaret? 
■  But  't  is  the  common  error  of  your  sex, 
When  our  idolatry  slackens,  or  grows  less, 
I  (As  who  of  woman  born  can  keep  his  faculty 
i  Of  Admiration,  being  a  decaying  faculty. 
For  ever  strain'd  to  the  pitch  ?  or  can  at  pleasure 
Make  it  renewable,  as  some  appetites  are. 
As,  namely.  Hunger,  Thirst  ? — )  this  being  the  case, 
They  tax  us  with  neglect,  and  love  grown  cold. 
Coin  plainings  of  the  perfidy  of  men. 
Which  into  maxims  pass,  and  apophthegms 
To  be  retail'd  in  ballads. — 
I  know  them  all. 

They  are  jealous,  when  our  larger  hearts  receive 
More  guests  than  one  (Love  in  a  woman's  heart 
Being  all  in  one).  For  me,  I  am  sure  I  have  room  here 
For  more  disturbers  of  my  sleep  than  one. 
Love  shall  have  part,  but  Love  shall  not  have  all. 
Ambition,  Pleasure,  Vanity,  all  by  turns, 
Shall  lie  in  my  bed,  and  keep  me  fresh  and  waking; 
Yet  Love  not  be  excluded. — Foolish  wench, 
I  could  have  loved  her  twenty  years  to  come. 
And  still  have  kept  my  liking.    But  since  't  is  so, 
Why  fare  thee  well,  old  playfellow !    I  '11  try 
To  squeeze  a  tear  for  old  acquaintance  sake. 
I  shall  not  grudge  so  much. 

To  Mm  enters  Lovel. 

LOVEL. 

Bless  us,  Woodvil !  what  is  the  matter  ?  I  protest, 
man,  I  thought  you  had  been  weeping. 

WOODVIL. 

Nothing  is  the  matter,  only  the  wench  has  forced 
Bome  water  into  my  eyes,  which  will  quickly  disband. 

LOVEL. 

I  cannot  conceive  you. 

WOODVIL. 

Margaret  is  flown. 

LOVEL. 

Upon  w^hat  pretence  ? 

WOODVIL. 

Neglect  on  my  part :  which  it  seems  she  has  had 
Ae  wit  to  discover,  maugre  all  my  pains  to  conceal  it. 

LOVEL. 

Then,  you  confess  the  charge  ? 


i 


WOODVIL. 

To  say  the  truth,  my  love  for  her  has  of  late  stopt 
short  on  this  side  idolatry. 

LOVEL. 

As  all  good  Christians'  should,  I  think. 

WOODVIL. 

I  am  sure,  I  could  have  loved  her  still  within  the 
limits  of  warrantable  love. 

LOVEL. 

A  kind  of  brotherly  affection,  I  take  it 

WOODVIL. 

We  should  have  made  excellent  man  and  wife  in 
time. 

LOVEL. 

A  good  old  couple,  when  the  snows  fell,  to  crowd 
about  a  sea-coal  fire,  and  talk  over  old  matters. 

WOODVIL. 

While  each  should  feel,  what  neither  cared  to  ac- 
knowledge, that  stories  oft  repeated  may,  at  last,  come 
to  lose  some  of  their  grace  by  the  repetition. 

LOVEL. 

Which  both  of  you  may  yet  live  long  enough  to 
discover.  For,  take  my 'word  for  it,  Margaret  .s  a 
bird  that  wiii  come  back  to  you  without  a  iuie. 

WOODVIL. 

Never,  never,  Lovel.  Spite  of  my  levity,  with  tears 
confess  it,  she  was  a  lady  of  most  confirmed  honor, 
of  an  unmatchable  spirit,  and  determinable  in  all 
virtuous  resolutions  ;  not  hasty  to  anticipate  an  af- 
front, nor  slow  to  feel,  where  just  provocation  was 
given. 

LOVEL. 

What  made  you  neglect  her,  then  ? 

WOODVIL. 

Mere  levity  and  youthfulness  of  blood,  a  malady 
incident  to  young  men :  physicians  call  it  caprice. 
Nothing  else.  He,  that  slighted  her,  knew^  her  value, 
and  't  is  odds,  but,  for  thy  sake,  Margaret,  John  will 
yet  go  to  his  grave  a  bachelor. 

{A  noise  heard,  as  of  one  drunk  and  singing. 

LOVEL. 

Here  comes  one,  that  will  quickly  dissipate  these 
humors. 

(Enter  one  drunk.) 

DRUNKEN  MAN. 

Good-morrow  to  you,  gentlemen.  Mr.  Lovel,  I  am 
your  humble  servant.  Honest  Jack  Woodvil,  I  will 
get  drunk  with  you  to-morrow. 

WOODVIL. 

And  why  to-morrow,  honest  Mr.  Freeman  ? 

DRUNKEN  MAN. 

I  scent  a  traitor  in  that  question.  A  beastly  ques- 
tion. Is  it  not  his  majesty's  birth-day?  the  day  of  all 
days  in  the  year,  on  which  King  Charles  the  second 
was  graciously  pleased  to  be  born.  (Sings)  "  Great 
pity  't  is  such  days  as  those  should  come  but  once  a 
year." 

LOVEL. 

Drunk  m  a  morning !  foh  I  how  he  stinks ! 

DRUNKEN  MAN. 

And  why  not  drunk  in  a  morning  ?  can'st  tell,  bully  ? 

WOODVIL. 

Because,  being  the  sweet  and  tender  infancy  of  th« 
day,  methinks,  it  should  ill  end  ure  such  early  blightings 

DRUNKEN  MAN. 

I  grant  you,  't  is  in  some  sort  the  youth  and  tender 
nonage  of  the  day.  Youth  is  bashful,  and  I  give  it  a 
cup  to  encourage  it.    (Sitigs)  "  Ale  that  will  mako 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Gnmalkin  prate." — At  noon  I  drink  for  thirst,  at  night 
for  fellowship,  but,  above  all,  I  love  to  usher  in  the 
bashful  morning  under  the  auspices  of  a  freshening 
stoup  of  liquor.  {Sings)  "  Ale  in  a  Saxon  rumkin  then 
makes  valor  burgeon  in  tall  men." — But,  I  crave 
pardon.  I  fear  I  keep  that  gentleman  from  serious 
thoughts.  There  be  those  that  wait  for  me  in  the  cellar. 

WOODVIL. 

Who  are  they  ? 

DRUNKEN  MAN. 

Gentlemen,  my  good  friends,  Cleveland,  Delaval, 
and  Truby.  I  know  by  this  time  they  are  all  clam- 
orous for  me.  [Exit,  singing. 

WOODVIL. 

This  keeping  of  open  house  acquaints  a  man  with 
strange  companions. 
{Enter,  at  another  door,  TJiree  calling  for  Harry 
Freeman.) 

Harry  Freeman,  Harry  Freeman. 
He  is  not  here.    Let  us  go  look  for  him. 
Where  is  Freeman  ? 
Where  is  Harry  ? 

[Exeunt  the  Three,  calling  for  Freeman. 

WOODVIL. 

Did  you  ever  see  such  gentry  ?  {laughing.)  These 
are  they  that  fatten  on  ale  and  tobacco  in  a  morning, 
drink  burnt  brandy  at  noon  to  promote  digestion,  and 
piously  conclude  with  quart  bumpers  after  supper, 
to  prove  their  loyalty. 

LOVEL. 

Come,  shall  we  adjourn  to  the  Tennis  Court? 

WOODVIL. 

No,  you  shall  go  with  me  into  the  gallery,  where 
I  will  show  you  the  Vandike  I  have  purchased.  "The 
late  King  taking  leave  of  his  chihlren." 

LOVEL. 

I  will  but  adjust  my  dress,  and  attend  you. 

[Exit  LovEL. 
JOHN  WOODVIL  {alone). 
Now  universal  England  getteth  drunk 
For  joy  that  Charles,  her  monarch,  is  restored  : 
And  she,  that  sometime  wore  a  saintly  mask, 
The  stale-gpown  vizor  from  her  face  doth  pluck. 
And  w-eareth  now  a  suit  of  morris-bells. 
With  which  she  jingling  goes  through  all  her  towns 

and  villages. 
Tlie  baffled  factions  in  their  houses  skulk : 
The  commonweallhsman,  and  state  machinist, 
The  crept  fanatic,  and  fifth-monarchy-man, 
Who  heareth  of  these  visionaries  now  ? 
They  and  their  dreams  have  ended.   Fools  do  sing. 
Where  good  men  yield  God  thanks ;  but  politic  spirits, 
Who  live  by  observation,  note  these  changes 
Of  the  popular  mind,  and  thereby  serve  their  ends. 
Then  why  not  I  ?  What 's  Charles  to  me,  or  Oliver, 
But  as  my  own  advancement  hangs  on  one  of  them? 

I  to  myself  am  chief 1  know. 

Some  shallow-  mouths  cry  out,  that  I  am  smit 

With  the  gauds  and  show  of  state,  the  point  of  place, 

And  trick  of  precedence,  the  ducks,  and  nods, 

Which  weak  minds  pay  to  rank.    'T  is  not  to  sit 

In  place  of  worship  at  the  royal  masques. 

Their  pastimes,  plays,  and  Whitehall  banquetings. 

For  none  of  these. 

Nor  yet  to  be  seen  w^hispering  with  some  great  one. 


Do  I  affect  the  favors  of  the  court. 

I  would  be  great,  for  greatness  hath  greai  pcwei , 

And  that's  the  fruit  I  reach  at. — 

Great  spirits  ask  great  play-room.    Who  could  sit, 

With  these  prophetic  swellings  in  my  breast. 

That  prick  and  goad  me  on,  and  never  cease. 

To  the  fortunes  something  tells  me  I  was  born  to? 

Who,  with  such  monitors  within  to  stir  him, 

Would  sit  him  down,  with  lazy  arms  across, 

A  unit,  a  thing  without  a  name  'a  the  state, 

A  something  to  be  govern'd,  not  to  govern, 

A  fishing,  hawking,  hunting,  country  gentleman  ? 

[EtvL 


SCENE  II.  , 

Sherwood  Forest.  v 

Sir  Walter  Woodvil.   Simon  Woodvil 
{Disguised  as  Frenchmen.) 

sir  W'ALTER. 

How  fares  my  boy,  Simon,  my  youngest  bom  ? 

My  hope  my  pride,  young  Woodvil,  speak  to  me 

Some  grief  untold  weighs  heavy  at  thy  heart: 

I  know  it  by  thy  alter'd  cheer  of  late. 

Thinkest,  thy  brother  plays  thy  father  false  ? 

It  is  a  mad  and  thriftless  prodigal. 

Grown  proud  upon  the  favors  of  the  court  ; 

Court  manners,  and  court  fashions,  he  affects. 

And  in  the  heat  and  uncheck'd  blood  of  youth, 

Harbors  a  company  of  riotous  men. 

All  hot,  and  young,  court-seekers,  like  himself, 

Most  skilful  to  devour  a  patrimony ; 

And  these  have  eat  into  my  old  estates, 

And  these  have  drain'd  thy  father's  cellars  dry  : 

But  these  so  common  faults  of  youth  not  named, 

(Things  which  themselves  outgrow,  left  to  themselves) 

I  know  no  quality  that  stains  his  honor. 

My  life  upon  his  faith  and  noble  mind. 

Son  John  could  never  play  thy  father  false. 

SIMON. 

I  never  thought  but  nobly  of  my  brother, 

Touching  his  honor  and  fidelity. 

Still  I  could  wish  him  charier  of  his  person, 

And  of  his  time  more  frugal,  than  to  spend 

In  riotous  living,  graceless  society. 

And  mirth  unpalatable,  hours  better  employ'd 

(With  those  persuasive  graces  nature  lent  him) 

In  fervent  pleadings  for  a  father's  life. 

SIR  WALTER. 

I  would  not  owe  my  life  to  a  jealous  court, 
Whose  shallow-  policy  I  know  it  is. 
On  some  reluctant  acts  of  prudent  mercy 
(Not  voluntary,  but  extorted  by  the  times. 
In  the  first  tremblings  of  new-fixed  power. 
And  recollection  smarting  from  old  wounds). 
On  these  to  build  a  spurious  popularity. 
Unknowing  what  free  grace  or  mercy  mean, 
They  fear  to  punish,  therefore  do  they  pardon 
For  this  cause  have  I  oft  forbid  my  son. 
By  letters,  overtures,  open  solicitings. 
Or  cl.jset-taraperings,  by  gold  or  fee, 
To  beg  or  bargam  with  the  court  ios  my  life. 

SIMON. 

And  John  has  ta'en  you,  father,  at  your  word 
True  to  the  letter  of  his  paternal  charge ! 

392 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


SIR  WALTER. 

Well,  my  good  cause,  and  my  good  conscience,  boy, 
Shall  be  for  sons  to  me,  if  John  prove  false. 
Men  die  but  once,  and  the  opportunity 
Of  a  noble  death  is  not  an  every-day  fortune : 
Tt  is  a  gift  which  noble  spirits  pray  for. 

SIMON. 

I  would  not  wrong  my  brother  by  surmise  : 

I  know  him  generous,  full  of  gentle  qualities, 

Incapable  of  base  compliances, 

No  prodigal  in  his  nature,  but  affecting 

This  show  of  bravery  for  ambitious  ends. 

He  drinks,  for  'tis  the  humor  of  the  court, 

And  drink  may  one  day  wrest  the  secret  from  him. 

And  pluck  you  from  your  hiding-place  in  the  sequel. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Fair  death  shall  be  my  doom,  and  foul  life  his. 
Till  when,  we  '11  live  as  free  in  this  green  forest 
As  yonder  deer,  who  roam  unfearing  treason  ; 
Who  seem  the  Aborigines  of  this  place, 
Or  Sherwood  theirs  by  tenure. 

SLMON. 

'T  is  said,  that  Robert  Earl  of  Huntingdon, 
Men  call'd  him  Robin  Hood,  an  outlaw  bold. 
With  a  merry  crew  of  hunters  here  did  haunt, 
IS'ot  sparing  the  king's  venison.     May  one  believe 
The  antique  tale  ? 

SIR  WALTER. 

There  is  much  likelihood, 

Such  bandits  did  in  England  erst  abound, 

When  polity  was  young.    I  have  read  of  the  pranks 

Of  that  mad  archer,  and  of  the  tax  he  levied 

On  travellers,  whatever  their  degree, 

Baron  or  knight,  whoever  pass'd  these  woods. 

Layman  or  priest,  not  sparing  the  bishop's  mitre 

For  spiritual  regards!  nay,  once,  'tis  said, 

He  robb'd  the  king  himself 

SIMON. 

A  perilous  man.  [Smiling. 

SIR  WALTER. 

How  quietly  we  live  here. 

Unread  in  the  world's  business. 

And  take  no  note  of  all  its  slippery  changes ! 

'T  were  best  we  make  a  world  among  ourselves, 

A  little  world. 

Without  the  ills  and  falsehoods  of  the  greater ; 

We  two  being  all  the  inhabitants  of  ours, 

And  kings  and  subjects  both  in  one. 

SIMON. 

Only  the  dangerous  errors,  fond  conceits 

Which  make  the  business  of  that  greater  world. 

Must  have  no  place  in  ours  : 

As,  namely,  riches,  honors,  birth,  place,  courtesy, 

Good  fame  and  bad,  rumors  and  popular  noises, 

Books,  creeds,  opinions,  prejudices  national. 

Humors  particular. 

Soul-killing  lies,  and  truths  that  w^ork  small  good, 

Feuds,  factions,  enmities,  relationships. 

Loves,  hatreds,  sympathies,  antipathies, 

And  all  the  intricate  stuff  quarrels  are  made  of 

(Margaret  enters  in  hoy's  apparel.) 

SIR  WALTER. 

What  pretty  boy  have  we  here  ? 

MARGARET. 

Bmjour,messieuTS.  Ye  have  handsome  English  faces. 
50 


I  should  have  ta'en  you  else  for  other  two, 
I  came  to  seek  in  the  forest. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Who  are  they  ? 

MARGARET. 

A  gallant  brace  of  Frenchmen,  curled  monsieurs. 
That,  men  say,  haunt  these  w^oods,  affecting  privacy 
More  than  the  manner  of  their  countrymen. 

SIMON. 

We  have  here  a  wonder : 
The  face  is  Margaret's  face. 

SIR  WALTER. 

The  face  is  Margaret's,  but  the  dress  the  same 
My  Stephen  sometime  wore. 

{To  Margaret 
Suppose  us  them ;  whom  do  men  say  we  are  ? 
Or  know  you  what  you  seek  ? 

MARGARET. 

A  worthy  pair  of  exiles. 

Two  whom  the  politics  of  state  revenge, 

In  final  issue  of  long  civil  broils. 

Have  houseless  driven  from  your  native  France, 

To  wander  idle  in  these  English  woods, 

Where  now  ye  live  ;  most  part 

Thinking  on  home,  and  all  the  joys  of  France, 

Where  grows  the  purple  vine. 

SIR  WALTER. 

These  woods,  young  stranger. 
And  grassy  pastures,  which  the  slim  deer  loves. 
Are  they  less  beauteous  than  the  land  of  France 
Where  grows  the  purple  vine  ? 

MARGARET. 

I  cannot  tell. 

To  an  indifferent  eye,  both  show  alike. 

'T  is  not  the  scene. 

But  all  familiar  objects  in  the  scene. 

Which  now  ye  miss,  that  constitute  a  difference 

Ye  had  a  country,  exiles,  ye  have  none  now ; 

Friends  had  ye,  and  much  wealth,  ye  now  have 

nothing; 
Our  manners,  laws,  our  custom.s,  all  are  foreign  to  you 
I  know  ye  lothe  them,  cannot  learn  them  readily; 
And  there  is  reason,  exiles,  ye  should  love 
Our  English  earth  less  than  your  land  of  France, 
Where  grow  s  the  purple  vine   where  all  delights  grow 
Old  custom  has  made  pleasant. 

SIR  WALTER. 

You,  that  are  read 

So  deeply  in  our  story,  what  are  you  ? 

MARGARET. 

A  bare  adventurer ;  in  brief  a  woman. 

That  put  strange  garments  on,  and  came  thus  far 

To  seek  an  ancient  friend  : 

And  having  spent  her  stock  of  idle  words, 

And  feeling  some  tears  coming, 

Hastes  now  to  clasp  Sir  Walter  Woodvil's  knees. 

And  beg  a  boon  for  Margaret,  his  poor  ward.  [Kneeling. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Not  at  my  feet,  Margaret,  not  at  my  feet 

MARGARET. 

Yes,  till  her  suit  is  answer'd. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Name  it. 

MARGARET. 

A  little  boon,  and  yet  so  great  a  grace 
She  fears  to  ask  it. 

393 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SIR  WALTER. 

Some  riddle,  Margaret  ? 

MARGARKT. 

N^o  riddle,  but  a  plain  request. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Name  it. 

MARGARET. 

Free  liberty  of  Sherwood, 

And  leave  to  take  her  lot  with  you  in  the  forest. 

SIR  WALTER. 

A  scant  petition,  Margaret,  but  take  it, 
Seal'd  with  an  old  man's  tears. — 
Rise,  daughter  of  Sir  Rowland. 

[Addresses  them  both. 
O  you  most  worthy, 
You  constant  followers  of  a  man  proscribed ; 
Following  poor  misery  in  the  throat  of  danger ; 
Fast  servntors  to  crazed  and  penniless  poverty, 
Serving  poor  poverty  without  hope  of  gain ; 
Kind  children  of  a  sire  unfortunate  ; 
Green  clinging  tendrils  round  a  trunk  decay'd. 
Which  needs  must  bring  on  you  timeless  decay; 
Fair  living  forms  to  a  dead  carcass  join'd  ! 
What  shall  I  say  ? 

Better  the  dead  were  gather'd  to  the  dead. 
Than  death  and  life  in  disproportion  meet. — 
Go,  seek  your  fortunes,  children. — 

SIMON. 

Why,  whither  shall  we  go  ? 

SIR  WALTER. 

You  to  the  Court,  where  now  your  brother  John 
Commits  a  rape  on  Fortune. 

SIMOX. 

Luck  to  John ! 

A  light-heel'd  strumpet,  when  the  sport  is  done. 

SIR  WALTER. 

You  to  the  sweet  society  of  your  equals. 

Where  the  world's  fashion  smiles  on  youth  and  beauty. 

MARGARET. 

Where  young  men's  flatteries  cozen  young  maids' 

beauty. 
There  pride  oft  gets  the  vantage  hand  of  duty, 
There  sweet  humility  withers. 

SIMON. 

Mistress  Margaret, 

How  fared  my  brother  John,  when  you  left  Devon  ? 

MARGARET. 

John  was  well.  Sir. 

SIMON. 

'T  is  now  nine  months  almost. 

Since  I  saw  home.  What  new  friends  has  John  made  ? 

Or  keeps  he  his  first  love  ? — I  did  suspect 

Some  foul  disloyaltv.     Now  do  I  know, 

John  has  proved  false  to  her,  for  Margaret  weeps. 

It  is  a  scurvy  brother. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Fie  upon  it. 

All  men  are  false,  I  think.    The  date  of  love 

Is  out,  expired,  its  stories  all  grown  stale, 

O'erpast,  forgotten  like  an  antique  tale 

Of  Hero  and  Leander. 

SIMON. 

I  have  known  some  men  that  are  too  general-con- 
templative for  the  narrow  passion.  I  am  in  some 
sort  a  general  lover. 


MARGARET. 

In  the  name  of  the  boy-god,  who  plays  at  hood- 
man-b!ind  with  the  Muses,  and  cares  not  whom  he 
catches  ;  what  is  it  you  love  ? 

SIMON. 

Simply,  all  things  that  live. 

From  the  crook'd  worm  to  man's  imperial  form, 

And  God-resembling  likeness.    The  poor  fly 

That  makes  short  holiday  in  the  sunbeam, 

And  dies  by  some  child's  hand.    The  feeble  bird 

With  little  wings,  yet  greatly  venturous 

In  the  upper  sky.    The  fish  in  th'  other  element, 

That  knows  no  touch  of  eloquence.     What  else? 

Yon  tall  and  elegant  stag. 

Who  paints  a  dancing  shadow  of  his  horns 

In  the  water,  where  he  drinks. 

MARGARET. 

I  myself  love  all  these  things,  yet  so  as  with  a  dit 
ference : — for  example,  some  animals  better  than 
others,  some  men  rather  than  other  men ;  the  night- 
ingale before  the  cuckoo,  the  swift  and  graceful  pal- 
frey before  the  slow  and  asinine  mule.  Your  humor 
goes  to  confound  all  qualities. 
What  sports  do  you  use  in  the  forest  ? — 

SIMON. 

Not  many ;  some  few,  as  thus  : — 

To  see  the  sun  to  bed,  and  to  arise. 

Like  some  hot  amourist  with  glowing  eyes. 

Bursting  the  lazy  bands  of  sleep  thai  bound  him, 

With  all  his  fires  and  travelling  glories  round  him. 

Sometimes  the  moon  on  soft  night-clouds  to  rest, 

Like  beauty  nestling  in  a  young  man's  breast. 

And  all  the  winking  stars,  her  handmaids,  keep 

Admiring  silence,  while  those  lovers  sleep. 

Sometimes  outstretch'd,  in  very  idleness. 

Nought  doing,  saying  little,  thinking  less. 

To  view  the  leaves,  thin  dancers  upon  air, 

Go  eddying  round ;  and  small  birds,  how  they  fare, 

When  mother  Autumn  fills  their  bealvs  with  corn, 

Filch'd  from  the  careless  Amalthea's  horn ; 

And  how  the  woods  berries  and  worms  provide 

Without  their  pains,  when  earth  has  nought  beside 

To  answer  their  small  wants. 

To  view  the  graceful  deer  come  tripping  by. 

Then  stop,  and  gaze,  then  turn,  they  know  not  why, 

Like  bashful  j'ounkers  in  society. 

To  mark  the  structure  of  a  plant  or  tree. 

And  all  fair  things  of  earth,  how  fair  they  be. 

MARGARET  {Smiling)- 
And  afterwards  them  paint  in  simile. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Mistress  Margaret  will  have  need  of  some  refresh- 
ment. 
Please  you,  we  have  some  poor  viands  within. 

MARGARET. 

Indeed  I  stand  in  need  of  them. 

SIR  WALTER. 

Under  the  shade  of  a  thick-spreading  tree. 

Upon  the  grass,  no  better  carpeting, 

We  '11  eat  our  noon-tide  meal  \  and,  dinner  done. 

One  of  us  shall  repair  to  Nottingham, 

To  seek  some  safe  night-lodging  in  the  town, 

Where  you  may  sleep,  while  here  with  ns  you  dwell 

By  day,  in  the  forest,  expecting  better  times, 

And  gentler  habitations,  noble  Margaret. 

SIMON. 

AUons,  young  Frenchman — 

394 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


MARGARET. 

AUons,  Sir  Englishman.    The  time  has  been, 
I  've  studied  love-lays  in  the  English  tongue, 
And  been  enamour'd  of  rare  poesy : 
Which  now  I  must  unlearn.    Henceforth, 
Sweet  mother-tongue,  old  English  speech,  adieu ; 
Eor  Margaret  has  got  new  name  and  language  new. 

[Exeiait. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  of  State  in  Woodvil  Hall. — Cavaliers 
drinking. 

Jofix  Woodvil,  Lovel,  Gray,  and  four  more. 

JOHN. 

More  mirth,  I  beseech  you,  Gentlemen — 
INIr.  Gray,  you  are  not  merry. 

GRAY. 

More  wine,  say  I,  and  mirth  shall  ensue  in  course. 
What!  we  have  not  yet  above  three  half-pints  a  man 
to  answer  for.  Brevity  is  the  soul  of  drinking,  as  of 
wit.   Dispatch,  I  say.    More  wine.  [Fills. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. 

I  entreat  you,  let  there  be  some  order,  some  method, 
in  our  drinldngs.  I  love  to  lose  my  reason  with  my 
eyes  open,  to  commit  the  deed  of  drunkenness  with 
foreihought  and  deliberation.  I  love  to  feel  the  fumes 
of  the  liquor  gathering  here,  like  clouds. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

And  I  am  for  plunging  into  madness  at  once.  Damn 
order,  and  method,  and  steps,  and  degrees,  that  he 
speaks  of!    Let  confusion  have  her  legitimate  work. 

LOVEL. 

I  marvel  why  the  poets,  who,  of  all  men,  methinks, 
should  possess  the  hottest  livers,  and  most  empyreal 
fancies,  should  affect  to  see  such  virtues  in  cold  water. 

GRAY. 

Virtue  in  cold  water  !  ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

JOHN. 

Because  your  poet-born  hath  an  internal  wine, 
richer  than  lippara  or  canaries,  yet  uncrushed  from 
any  grapes  of  earth,  unpressed  in  mortal  wine-presses. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

What  may  be  the  name  of  this  wine  ? 

JOHN. 

It  hath  as  many  names  as  qualities.  It  is  denomi- 
nated indifferently,  wit,  conceit,  invention,  inspiration  ; 
but  its  most  royal  and  comprehensive  name  is  fancy. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

I       And  where  keeps  he  this  sovereign  liquor  ? 

j  JOHN. 

I  Its  cellars  are  in  the  brain,  whence  your  true  poet 
deriveth  intoxication  at  will;  while  his  animal  spirits, 
catching  a  pride  from  the  quality  and  neighborhood 
of  their  noble  relative,  the  brain,  refuse  to  be  sus- 
ained  by  wines  and  fermentations  of  earth. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

But  is  your  poet-born  always  tipsy  with  this  hquor  ? 

JOHN. 

He  hath  his  stoopings  and  reposes ;  but  his  proper 
element  is  the  sky.  and  in  the  suburbs  of  the  empyrean. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

Is  vour  wine-intellectual  so  exquisite  ?  henceforth, 


I,  a  man  of  plain  conceit,  will,  in  all  humility,  con- 
tent my  mind  wiih  canaries. 

FOURTH  GENTLEMAN. 

I  am  for  a  song  or  a  catch.  When  will  the  catches 
come  on,  the  sweet  wicked  catches  ? 

JOHN. 

They  cannot  be  introduced  with  propriety'  before 
midnight.  Every  man  must  commit  his  twenty  bum- 
pers first.  We  are  not  yet  well  roused.  Frank  Lovel, 
the  glass  stands  with  you. 

LOVEL. 

Gentlemen,  the  Duke.  [Fills. 

ALL. 

The  Duke.  [Tfiey  drink. 

GR.iY. 

Can  any  tell,  why  his  Grace,  being  a  Papist — 

JOHN. 

Pshaw !  we  will  have  no  questions  of  state  now. 
Is  not  this  his  Majesty's  birth-day  ? 

GRAY. 

What  follows  ? 

JOHN. 

That  every  man  should  sing,  and  be  joyful,  and 
ask  no  questions. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

Damn  politics,  they  spoil  drinking. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

For  certain,  't  is  a  blessed  monarchy. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

The  cursed  fanatic  days  we  have  seen !  The  times 
have  been  when  swearing  was  out  of  fashion. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

And  drinking. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. 

And  wenching. 

GRAY. 

The  cursed  yeas  and  forsoolhs,  which  we  have 
heard  uttered,  when  a  man  could  not  rap  out  an 
innocent  oath,  but  straight  the  air  was  thought  to  be 
infected. 

LOVEL. 

'T  was  a  pleasant  trick  of  the  saint,  which  that  trim 
puritan  Swear-not-af-all  Smooth-speech  used,  when  his 
spouse  chid  him  with  an  oath  for  committing  with 
his  servant-maid,  to  cause  liis  house  to  be  fumigated 
with  burnt  brandy,  and  ends  of  scripture,  to  disperse 
the  devil's  breath,  as  he  termed  it. 

ALL. 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 

GRAY. 

But  't  was  pleasanter,  when  the  other  sainf  Resist- 
the-devil-and-he-will-Jlee-from-thee  Pureman  was  over- 
taken in  the  act,  to  plead  an  illusio  visus,  and  main 
tain  his  sanctity  upon  a  supposed  power  in  the  ad- 
versary to  counterfeit  the  shapes  of  things. 

ALL. 

Ha!  ha!  ha! 

JOHN. 

Another  round,  and  then  let  every  man  devise 
what  trick  he  can  in  his  fancy,  for  the  bettet  mani 
festing  our  loyalty  this  day. 

GRAY. 

Shall  we  hang  a  puritan  ? 

JOHN. 

No,  that  has  been  done  already  in  Coleman-Streeu 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

Or  fire  a  conventicle  ? 

395 


10 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


JOHN. 

That  is  stale  too. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

Or  burn  the  Assembly's  catechism  ? 

FOURTH  GENTLEMAN. 

Or  drink  the  king's  health,  every  man  standing 
upon  his  head  naked  ? 

JOHN  {To  Lovel). 
We  have  here  some  pleasant  madness. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

Who  shall  pledge  me  in  a  pint  bumper,  while  we 
drink  to  the  king  upon  our  knees  I 

LOVEL. 

Why  on  our  knees,  Cavalier  ? 

JOHN  (smiling). 
For  more  devotion,  to  be  sure. — {To  a  servant). 
Sirrah,  fetch  the  gilt  goblets. 

[The  goblets  are  brought.  They  drink  the  king's 
health,  kneeling.  A  shout  of  general  approba- 
tion following  the  first  appearance  of  tlie 
goblets. 

JOHN. 

We  have  here  the  unchecked  virtues  of  the  grape. 
How  the  vajwrs  curl  upwards  !  It  were  a  life  of  gods 
to  dwell  in  such  an  element :  to  see,  and  hear,  and 
talk  brave  things.  Now  fie  upon  these  casual  pota- 
tions. That  a  man's  most  exalted  reason  should  de- 
pend upon  the  ignoble  fermenting  of  a  fruit  which 
sparrows  pluck  at  as  well  as  we ! 

GRAY  {aside  to  Lovel). 

Observe  how  he  is  ravished. 

LOVEL. 

Vanity  and  gay  thoughts  of  wine  do  meet  in  him, 
and  engender  madness. 

[  While  the  rest  are  engaged  in  a  wild  kind  of 
talk,  John  advances  to  the  front  of  the  stage  arid 
soliloquizes. 

JOHN. 

My  spirits  turn  to  fire,  they  mount  so  fast. 

My  joys  are  turbulent,  my  hopes  show  like  fruition. 

These  high  and  gusty  relishes  of  hfe,  sure. 

Have  no  allayings  of  mortality  in  them. 

I  am  too  hot  now  and  o'ercapable, 

I"'or  the  tedious  processes,  and  creeping  wisdom, 

Of  human  acts,  and  enterprises  of  a  man. 

I  want  some  seasonings  of  adversity, 

Some  strokes  of  the  old  mortifier  Calamity, 

To  take  these  swellings  down,  divines  call  vanity. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. 

Mr.  Woodvil,  Mr.  Woodvil. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

Where  is  Woodvil  ? 

GRAY. 

Let  him  alone.    I  have  seen  him  in  these  lunes 
before. 
His  abstractions  must  not  taint  the  good  mirth. 

JOHN  {continuing  to  soliloquize). 
O  for  some  friend  now, 
To  conceal  nothing  from,  to  have  no  secrets. 
How  fine  and  noble  a  thing  is  confidence, 
How  reasonable  too,  and  almost  godlike! 
Fast  cement  of  fast  friends,  band  of  society, 
Old  natural  go-between  in  the  world's  business. 
Where  civil  life  and  order,  wanting  this  cement, 
Would  presently  rush  back 
Into  the  pristine  state  of  singularity 
And  each  man  stand  alone. 


(A  Servant  enters.) 
Gentlemen,  the  fire-works  are  ready. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. 

What  be  they?  .JH 

LOVEL.  ^U 

The  work  of  London  artists,  which  our  host  has 
provided  in  honor  of  this  day. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

'Sdeath,  who  would  part  with  his  wine  for  a  rocket? 

LOVEL. 

Why  truly,  gentlemen,  as  our  kind  host  has  been   j 
at  the  pains  to  provide  this  spectacle,  we  can  do  no  I 
less  than  be  present  at  it.   It  will  not  take  up  much 
time.    Every  man  may  return  fresh  and  thirsting  to 
his  liquor. 

THIRD  GENTLEMAN. 

There  is  reason  in  what  he  says. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. 

Charge  on  then,  bottle  in  hand.  There 's  husbandry 
in  that. 

[They  go  out,  singing.  Only  Lovel  remains,  who 
observes  Woodvil. 

JOHN  {Still  talking  to  himself.) 
This  Lovel  here 's  of  a  tough  honesty, 
Would  put  the  rack  to  the  proof  He  is  not  of  that  sort 
Which  haunt  my  house,  snorting  the  liquors, 
And  when  their  wisdoms  are  afloat  with  wine, 
Spend  vows  as  fast  as  vapors,  which  go  off 
Even  with  the  fumes,  their  fathers.    He  is  one, 
Whose  sober  morning  actions 
Shame  not  his  o'ernight  promises  ; 
Talks  little,  flatters  less,  and  makes  no  promises ; 
Why  this  is  he,  whom  the  dark-wisdom'd  fate 
Might  trust  her  counsels  of  predestination  with, 
And  the  world  be  no  loser. 
Why  should  I  fear  this  man  ?  [Seeing  LovEt 

Where  is  the  company  gone  ? 

LOVEL. 

To  see  tlie  fire-works,  where  you  will  be  expected 
to  follow.   But  I  perceive  you  are  better  engaged. 

JOHN. 

I  have  been  meditating  this  half-hour 
On  all  the  properties  of  a  brave  friendship. 
The  mysteries  that  are  in  it,  the  noble  uses, 
Its  hmifs  withal,  and  its  nice  boundaries. 
Exempli  gratia,  how  far  a  man 
May  lawfully  forswear  himself  for  his  friend  ; 
What  quantity  of  Ues,  some  of  them  brave  ones, 
He  may  lawfully  incur  in  a  friend's  behalf; 
What  oaths,  blood-crimes,  hereditary  quarrels. 
Night  brawls,  fierce  words,  and  duels  in  the  morning 
He  need  not  stick  at,  to  maintain  his  friend's  honor 
or  his  cause. 

LOVEL. 

I  think  many  men  would  die  for  their  friends. 

JOHN. 

Death !  why  't  is  nothing.    We  go  to  it  for  sport, 
To  gain  a  name,  or  purse,  or  please  a  sullen  humor, 
When  one  has  worn  his  fortune's  livery  threadbare, 
Or   his   spleen'd   mistress   frowns.     Husbands  will 

venture  on  it, 
To  cure  the  hot  fits  and  cold  shakings  of  jealousy. 
A  friend,  sir,  must  do  more. 

LOVEL. 

Can  he  do  more  than  die  ? 

JOHN. 

To  serve  a  friend,  this  he  may  do.    Pray  mark  me. 

396 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


11 


Having  a  law  within  (great  spirits  feel  one) 
He  cannot,  ought  not  to  be  bound  by  any- 
Positive  laws  or  ord'nances  extern, 
But  may  reject  all  these :  by  the  law  of  friendship 
He  may  do  so  much,  be  they,  indifferently, 
Penn'd  statutes,  or  the  land's  unwritten  usages, 
As  public  fame,  civil  compliances. 
Misnamed  honor,  trust  in  matter  of  secrets. 
All  vows  and  promises,  the  feeble  mind's  religion 
(Binding  our  morning  knowledge  to  approve 
What  last  night's  ignorance  spake) ; 
The  ties  of  blood  withal,  and  prejudice  of  kin. 
Sir,  these  weak  terrors 

Must  never  shake  me.     I  know  what  belongs 
To  a  worthy  friendship.     Come,  you  shall  have  my 
confidence. 

LOVEL. 

I  hope  you  think  me  worthy. 

JOHN. 

You  will  smile  to  hear  now — 

Sir  Walter  never  has  been  out  of  the  island. 

LOVEL. 

You  amaze  me. 

JOHN'. 

That  same  report  of  his  escape  to  France 
Was  a  fine  tale,  forged  by  myself — 
Ha!  ha! 
I  knew  it  would  stagger  him. 

LOVEL. 

Pray,  give  me  leave. 

Where  has  he  dwelt,  how  hved,  how  Iain  conceal'd? 
'  Sure  I  may  ask  so  much. 

JOHN. 

From  place  to  place,  dweUing  in  no  place  long. 
My  brother  Simon  still  hath  borne  him  company, 
("fis  a  brave  youth,  I  envy  him  all  his  virtues). 
Disguised  in  foreign  garb,  they  pass  for  Frenchmen, 
Two  Protestant  exiles  from  the  Limosin, 
Newly  arrived.  Their  dwelling 's  now  at  Nottingham, 
Where  no  soul  knows  them. 

LOVEL. 

Can  you  assign  any  reason,  why  a  gentleman  of 
Sir  Walter's  known  prudence  should  expose  his  per- 
son so  lightly  ? 

JOHN. 

I  believe,  a  certain  fondness, 

A  child-like  cleaving  to  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 

Chains  him  like  fate. 

LOVEL. 

1  have  known  some  exiles  thus 

To  linger  out  the  term  of  the  law's  indulgence, 

To  the  hazard  of  being  known. 

JOHN. 

You  may  suppose  sometimes 

They  use  the  neighb'ring  Sherwood  for  their  sport, 

Their  exercise  atid  freer  recreation. — 

I  see  you  smile.     Pray  now,  be  careful. 

LOVEL. 

I  am  no  babbler  sir  ,•  you  need  not  fear  me. 

JOHN. 

But  some  men  have  been  known  to  talk  in  their  sleep, 
And  tell  fine  tales  that  way. 

LOVEL. 

I  have  heard  so  much.     But,  to  say  truth,  I  mostly  | 
sleep  alone. 

21 


Or  drink,  sir  ?  do  you  never  drink  too  freely  ? 
Some  men  will  drink,  and  tell  you  all  their  secrets. 

LOVEL. 

Why  do  you  question  me,  who  know  my  habits  i 

JOHN. 

I  think  you  are  no  sot. 

No  tavern-troubler,  worshipper  of  the  grape ; 

But  all  men  drink  sometimes, 

And  veriest  saints  at  festivals  relax. 

The  marriage  of  a  friend,  or  a  wife's  birth-day. 

LOVEL. 

How  much,  sir,  may  a  man  with  safetj'  drink  ? 

[Smiling 

JOHN. 

Sir,  three  half-pints  a  day  is  reasonable  ; 

I  care  not  if  you  never  exceed  that  quantity. 

LOVEL. 

I  shall  observe  it ; 

On  holidays  two  quarts. 

JOHN. 

Or  stay  ;  you  keep  no  wench  ? 

LOVEL. 

Hal 

JOHN. 

No  painted  mistress  for  your  private  hours  ? 
You  keep  no  whore,  sir  ? 

LOVEL. 

What  does  he  mean  ? 

JOHN 

Who  for  a  close  embrace,  a  toy  of  sin, 

And  amorous  praising  of  your  worship's  breath 

In  rosy  junction  of  four  melting  lips, 

Can  kiss  out  secrets  from  you  ? 

LOVEL. 

How  strange  this  passionate  behavior  shows  in  you 
Sure  you  think  me  some  weak  one. 

JOHN. 

Pray  pardon  me  some  fears. 

You  have  now  the  pledge  of  a  dear  father's  life. 

I  am  a  son — would  fain  be  thought  a  loving  one , 

You  may  allow  me  some  fears :  do  not  despise  me, 

If,  in  a  posture  foreign  to  my  spirit. 

And  by  our  well-knit  friendship  I  conjure  you. 

Touch  not  Sir  W'alter's  life.  [Kneels. 

You  see  these  tears.     My  father's  an  old  man. 

Pray  let  him  live. 

LOVEL. 

I  must  be  bold  to  tell  you,  these  new  freedoms 
Show  most  unhandsome  in  you. 

JOHN  (rising). 
Ha !  do  you  say  so  ? 

Sure,  you  are  not  growTi  proud  upon  my  secret ! 
Ah !  now  I  see  it  plain.    He  would  be  babbling. 
No  doubt  a  garrulous  and  hard-faced  traitor — 
But  I  '11  not  give  you  leave.  [Draw 

LOVEL. 

What  does  this  madman  mean  ? 

JOHN. 

Come,  sir,  here  is  no  subterfuge. 
You  must  kill  me,  or  I  kill  you. 

LOVEL  (dravnng). 
Then  self-defence  plead  my  excuse. 
Have  at  you,  sir.  [TheyJighL 

3?" 


12 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


JOHN. 

Stay,  Sir : 

I  hope  you  have  made  your  will ; 

If  not,  'tis  no  great  matter. 

A  broken  cavalier  has  seldom  much 

He  can  bequeath :  an  old  worn  peruke, 

A  snuff-box  with  a  picture  of  Prince  Rupert, 

A  rusty  sword  he  '11  swear  was  used  at  Naseby, 

Though  it  ne'er  came  within  ten  miles  of  the  place ; 

And,  if  he  's  very  rich, 

A  cheap  edition  of  the  Icon  Basilihe, 

Is  mostly  all  the  wealth  he  dies  possess'd  of. 

You  say  few  prayers,  I  fancy ; — 

So  to  it  again. 

[Theyfighl  again.    LovEL  is  disarmed. 

LOVEL. 

You  had  best  now  lake  my  life.  I  guess  you  mean  it. 

JOHN  {musing). 
]Vo : — Men  will  say  I  fear'd  him,  if  I  kiU'd  him. 
Live  still,  and  be  a  traitor  in  thy  wish, 
But  never  act  thy  thought,  being  a  coward. 
That  vengeance,  which  thy  soul  shall  nightly  thirst  for. 
And  this  disgrace  I  've  done  you  cry  aloud  for. 
Still  have  the  will  without  the  power  to  execute. 
So  now  I  leave  you. 
Feeling  a  sweet  security.    No  doubt 
My  secret  shall  remain  a  virgin  for  you ! — 

[Goes  out,  smiling  in  scorn. 

LOVEL  {rising). 
For  once  you  are  mistaken  in  your  man. 
The  deed  you  wot  of  shall  forthwith  be  done. 
A  bird  let  loose,  a  secret  out  of  hand. 
Returns  not  back.     Why,  then  't  is  baby  policy 
To  menace  him  who  hath  it  in  his  keeping. 
I  will  go  look  for  Gray ; 

Then,  northward  ho !  such  tricks  as  we  shall  play 
Have  not  been  seen,  I  think,  in  merry  Sherwood, 
Since  the  days  of  Robin  Hood  that  archer  good. 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  Woodinl  Hall. 

JOHN  wooDViL  {alone). 
A  weight  of  wine  lies  heavy  on  ray  head, 
The  unconcocted  follies  of  last  night. 
Now  all  those  jovial  fancies,  and  bright  hopes, 
Children  of  wine,  go  off  like  dreams. 
This  sick  vertigo  here 
Preacheth  of  temperance,  no  sermon  better. 
These  black  thoughts,  and  dull  melancholy. 
That  stick  like  burs  to  the  brain,  will  they  ne'er 

leave  me  ? 
Some  men  are  full  of  choler,  when  they  are  drunk; 
Some  brawl  of  matter  foreign  to  themselves ; 
And  some,  the  most  resolved  fools  of  all, 
Have  told  their  dearest  secrets  in  their  cups. 


SCENE  II. 

The  Forest. 

Sir  Walter,  Simon,  Lovel,  Gray. 

LOVEL. 

Sir,  we  are  sorry  we  cannot  return  your  French 
ualutation. 


GRAY. 

Nor  otherwise  consider  this  garb  you  trust  to  than 
as  a  poor  disguise. 

LOVEL. 

Nor  use  much  ceremony  with  a  traitor. 

CRAY. 

Therefore,  without  much  induction  of  superfluous! 
words,  1  attach  you.  Sir  Walter  Woodvil,  of  High 
Treason,  in  the  King's  name. 

LOVEL. 

And  of  taking  part  in  the  great  rebellion  againsti 
our  late  lawful  Sovereign,  Charles  the  First 

SIMON. 

John  has  betray'd  us,  father. 

LOVEL. 

Come,  Sir,  you  had  best  surrender  fairly.  We  know 
you,  Sir. 

SIMON. 

Hang  ye,  villains,  ye  are  two  better  known  than 
trusted.  I  have  seen  those  faces  before.  Are  ye  n<rt 
two  beggarly  retainers,  trencher-parasites,  to  John  ?i 
I  think  ye  rank  above  his  footmen.  A  sort  of  bed 
and  board  worms — locusts  that  infest  our  house; 
a  leprosy  that  long  has  hung  upon  its  v.  alls  ar 
princely  apartments,  reaching  to  fill  all  the  cornel 
of  my  brother's  once  noble  heart. 

GRAY. 

We  are  his  friends. 

SIMON. 

Fie,  Sir,  do  not  weep.    How  these  rogues  will 
umph !  Shall  I  whip  off  their  heads,  father  ?  [Dro 

LOVEL. 

Come,  Sir,  although  this  show  handsome  in  yoi 
being  his  son,  yet  the  law  must  have  its  course. 

SIMON. 

And  if  I  tell  you  the  law  shall  not  have  its  cour 
cannot  ye  be  content?  Courage,  father;  shall  sue 
things  as  these  apprehend  a  man  ?  ^Vllich  of  ye  wi 
venture  upon  me? — Will  you,  Mr.  Constable  seU 
elect?  or  you.  Sir,  with  a  pimple  on  your  nose,  go: 
at  Oxford  by  hard  drinking,  your  only  badge  of  loy 
alty? 

GRAY. 

'T  is  a  brave  youth — I  cannot  strike  at  him. 

SIMON. 

Father,  why  do  you  cover  your  face  with  you 
hands  ?  Why  do  you  fetch  your  breath  so  hard  ?  See 
villains,  his  heart  is  burst !  O  villains,  he  canno 
speak.  One  of  you  run  for  some  water :  quickly,  y< 
knaves  ;  will  ye  have  your  throats  cut  ?  [They  holi 
slink  off.]  How  is  it  with  you,  Sir  Waller  ?  Lool 
up,  Sir,  the  villains  are  gone,  He  hears  me  not,  am 
this  deep  disgrace  of  treachery  in  his  son  hath  toucli 
ed  hira  even  to  the  death.  6  most  distuned  and  dis 
tempered  world,  where  sons  talk  their  aged  lather 
into  their  graves  I  Garrulous  and  diseased  world,  am 
still  empty,  rotten  and  hollow  talking  world,  wher< 
good  men  decay,  states  turn  round  in  an  endless  mu^ 
lability,  and  still  for  the  worse :  nothing  is  at  a  stay' 
nothing  abides  but  vanity,  chaotic  vanity. — Brother 
adieu ! 

There  lies  the  parent  stock  which  gave  us  life. 
Which  1  will  see  consign'd  with  tears  to  earth. 
Leave  thou  the  solemn  funeral  rites  to  me, 
Grief  and  a  true  remorse  abide  with  thee. 

[Bears  in  the  body 
3i)8 


JOHN  WOODVIL. 


13 


SCENE    III. 
Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

MARGARET  (olone). 

It  was  an  error  merely,  and  no  crime, 

An  unsuspecting  openness  in  youth. 

That  from  his  lips  the  fatal  secret  drew, 

Which  should  have  slept  like  one  of  nature's  mysteries, 

Unveil'd  by  any  man. 

Well,  he  is  dead  ! 

And  what  should  Margaret  do  in  the  forest  ? 

0  ill-starr'd  John ! 

O  Woodvil,  man  enfeoffed  to  despair ! 

Take  thy  fiirewell  of  peace. 

0  neAer  look  again  to  see  good  days, 

Or  close  thy  lids  in  comfortable  nights, 

Or  ever  think  a  happy  thought  again, 

If  what  I  have  heard  be  true. — 

Forsaken  of  the  world  must  Woodvil  live, 

If  he  did  tell  these  men. 
I  No  tongue  must  speak  to  him,  no  tongue  of  man 
:  Salute  him,  when  he  wakes  up  in  a  morning ; 
I  Or  bid  "  good  night"  to  John.     Who  seeks  to  live 

In  amity  with  thee,  must  for  thy  sake 
■  Abide  the  world's  reproach.     What  then? 
;  Shall  Margaret  join  the  clamors  of  the  world, 
j  Against  her  friend  ?    O  undiscerning  world, 
I  That  cannot  from  misfortune  separate  guilt, 
;  No,  not  in  thought !  O  never,  never,  John. 

Prepared  to  share  the  fortunes  of  her  friend 

Fcrr  better  or  for  worse,  thy  Margaret  comes, 
\  To  pour  into  thy  wounds  a  healing  love, 
j  And  wake  the  memory  of  an  ancient  friendship. 
I  And  pardon  me,  thou  spirit  of  Sir  Walter, 
'  Who,  in  compassion  to  the  wretched  living, 
i  Have  but  few  tears  to  waste  upon  the  dead. 


SCENE    IV. 

Woodvil  Hall. 
Saxdford,  Margaret  {as  from  a  journey). 


SA>fDF0RD. 

The  violence  of  the  sudden   mischance  hath  so 

wrought  in  him,  who  by  nature  is  allied  to  nothing 

'   less  than  a  self-debasing  humor  of  dejection,  that  I 

■  have  never  seen  anything  more  changed  and  spirit- 
'   broken.    He  hath,  with  a  peremptory  resolution,  dis- 

■  missed  the  partners  of  his  riots  and  late  hours,  denied 
;  his  house  and  pei-son  to  their  most  earnest  solicitings, 
i  and  will  be  seen  by  none.  He  keeps  ever  alone, 
'  and  his  grief  (which  is  solitary)  does  not  so  much 
!  seem  to  possess  and  govern  in  him,  as  it  is  by  him, 
'  with  a  wilfulness  of  most  manifest  affection,  enter- 
tained and  cherished. 

MARGARET. 

How  bears  he  up  against  the  common  rumor? 

SANDFORD. 

With  a  strange  indifference,  which  whosoever  dives 
I  not  into  the  niceness  of  his  sorrow  might  mistake  for 
;.  obdtirate  and  insensate.  Yet  are  the  wings  of  his 
pride  for  ever  dipt ;  and  yet  a  virtuous  predominance 
of  filial  grief  is  so  ever  uppermost,  that  you  may  dis- 
cover his  thoughts  less  troubled  with  conjecruring 
what  living  opinions  will  say,  and  judge  of  his  deeds, 
than  absorbed  and  buried  with  the  dead,  whom  his 
indiscretion  made  so. 


MARGARET. 

I  knew  a  greatness  ever  to  be  resident  in  him,  to 
which  the  admiring  eyes  of  men  should  look  up  even 
in  the  declining  and  bankrupt  state  of  his  pride. 
Fain  would  I  see  him,  fain  talk  with  him ;  but  that 
a  sense  of  respect,  which  is  violated,  when  without 
deliberation  we  press  into  the  society  of  the  unhappy, 
checks  and  holds  me  back.  How,  think  you,  he 
would  bear  my  presence  ? 

SANDFORD. 

As  of  an  assured  friend,  whom  in  the  forgetfulness 
of  his  fortunes  he  passed  by.  See  him  you  must;  but 
not  to-night.  The  newness  of  the  sight  shall  move 
the  bitterest  compunction  and  the  truest  remorse ;  but 
afterwards,  trust  me,  dear  lady,  the  happiest  effects 
of  a  returning  peace,  and  a  gracious  comfort,  to  him, 
to  you,  and  all  of  us. 

MARGARET. 

I  think  he  would  not  deny  me.  He  hath  ere  this 
received  farewell  letters  from  his  brother,  who  hath 
taken  a  resolution  to  estrange  himself,  for  a  time,  from 
country,  friends,  and  kindred,  and  to  seek  occupation 
for  his  sad  thoughts  in  travelling  in  foreign  places, 
where  sights  remote  and  extern  to  himself  may  draw 
from  him  kindly  and  not  painful  ruminations. 

SANDFORD. 

I  was  present  at  the  receipt  of  the  letter.  The  con- 
tents seemed  to  affect  him,  for  a  moment,  with  a 
more  lively  passion  of  grief  than  he  has  at  any  time 
outwardly  shown.  He  wept  with  many  tears  (which 
I  had  not  before  noted  in  him),  and  appeared  to  be 
touched  with  a  sense  of  some  unkindness;  but  the 
cause  of  their  sad  separation  and  divorce  quickly  re- 
curring, he  presently  returned  to  his  former  inward- 
ness of  suffering. 

MARGARET. 

The  reproach  of  his  brother's  presence  at  this  hour 
should  have  been  a  weight  more  than  could  be  sus- 
tained bv  his  already  oppressed  and  sinking  spirit. — 
Meditating  upon  these  intricate  and  wide-spread 
sorrows,  hath  brought  a  heaviness  upon  me,  as  of 
sleep.     How  goes  the  night  ? 

SANDFORD. 

An  hour  past  sun-set.  You  shall  first  refresh  your 
limbs  (tired  with  travel)  with  meats  and  some  cordial 
wine,  and  then  betake  your  no  less  wearied  mind  to 
repose. 

MARGARET. 

A  good  rest  to  us  all. 

SANDFORD. 

Thanks,  lady. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

John  Woodvil  {dressing). 

JOHN. 

How  beautiful,  [Handling  his  mourning 

And  comely  do  these  mourning  garments  show ! 

Sure  Grief  hath  set  his  sacred  impress  here. 

To  claim  the  world's  respect!  they  note  so  feelingly 

Bv  outward  types  the  serious  man  within. — 

Alas!  what  part  or  portion  can  I  claim 

In  all  the  decencies  of  virtuous  sorrow, 

399 


14 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  other  mourners  use  ?  as,  namely, 

This  black  attire,  abstraction  from  society. 

Good  thoughts,  and  frequent  sighs,  and  seldom  smiles, 

A  cleaving  sadness  native  to  the  brow. 

All  sweet  condolements  of  like-grieved  friends, 

(That  steal  away  the  sense  of  loss  almost), 

Men's  pity,  and  good  offices 

Which  enemies  themselves  do  for  us  then, 

Putting  their  hostile  disposition  off. 

As  we  put  off  our  high  thoughts  and  proud  looks. 

[Pauses,  and  observes  the  pictures. 
These  pictures  must  be  taken  down  : 
The  portraitures  of  our  most  ancient  family 
For  nigh  three  hundred  years  !  How  have  I  listen'd. 
To  hear  Sir  Walter,  with  an  old  man's  pride, 
Holding  me  in  his  arms,  a  prating  boy. 
And  pointing  to  the  pictures  where  they  hung, 
Repeat  by  course  their  worthy  histories, 
(As  Hugh  de  Widville,  Walter,  first  of  the  name. 
And  Anne  the  handsome,  Stephen,  and  famous  John: 
Telling  me  I  must  be  his  famous  John). 
But  that  was  in  old  times. 
Now,  no  more 

Must  I  grow  proud  upon  our  house's  pride. 
I  rather,  I,  by  most  unhoard-of  crimes. 
Have  backward  tainted  all  their  noble  blood. 
Rased  out  the  memory  of  an  ancient  family, 
And  quite  reversed  the  honors  of  our  house. 
Who  now  shall  sit  and  tell  us  anecdotes? 
The  secret  history  of  his  own  times. 
And  fashions  of  the  world  when  he  was  young : 
How  England  slept  out  three-and-twenty  years. 
While  Carr  and  Villiers  ruled  the  baby  king  : 
The  costly  fancies  of  the  pedant's  reign, 
Balls,  feastings,  huntings,  shows  in  allegory. 
And  Beauties  of  the  court  of  James  the  First. 

Margaret  enters. 

JOHN. 

Comes  Margaret  here  to  w'itness  my  disgrace  ? 
O,  lady,  I  have  sufTer'd  loss. 
And  diminution  of  my  honor's  brightness. 
You  bring  some  images  of  old  times,  Margaret, 
That  should  be  now  forgotten. 

MARGARET. 

Old  times  should  never  be  forgotten,  John. 
I  came  to  talk  about  them  with  my  friend. 

JOHiN. 

I  did  refuse  you,  Margaret,  in  my  pride. 

MARGARET. 

If  John  rejected  Margaret  in  his  pride, 
(As  who  does  not,  being  splenetic,  refuse 
Sometimes  old  playfellows),  the  spleen  being  gone, 
The  offence  no  longer  lives. 

0  Woodvil,  those  were  happy  days, 

When  w^e  two  first  began  to  love.     When  first. 
Under  pretence  of  visiting  my  father, 
(Being  then  a  stripling,  nigh  upon  my  age). 
You  came  a  wooing  to  his  daughter,  John. 
Do  you  remember, 

With  what  a  coy  reserve  and  seldom  speech 
( V^oung  maidens  must  be  chary  of  their  speech), 

1  kept  the  honors  of  my  maiden  pride  ? 
I  was  your  favorite  then. 

JOH.V. 

O  Margaret,  Margaret ! 


These  your  submissions  to  my  low  estate, 
And  cleavings  to  the  fates  of  sunken  Woodvil, 
Write  bitter  things  'gainst  my  un worthiness. 
Thou  perfect  pattern  of  thy  slandor'd  sex. 
Whom  miseries  of  mine  could  never  alienate. 
Nor  change  of  fortune  shake;  whom  injuries, 
And  slights  (the  worst  of  injuries)  which  moved 
Thy  nature  to  return  scorn  with  like  scorn, 
Then  when  you  left  in  virtuous  pride  this  house. 
Could  not  so  separate,  but  now  in  this 
My  day  of  shame,  when  all  the  world  forsake  me, 
You  only  visit  me,  love,  and  forgive  me. 

MARGARET. 

Dost  yet  remember  the  green  arbor,  John, 
In  the  south  gardens  of  my  father's  house. 
Where  we  have  seen  the  summer  sun  go  down. 
Exchanging  true-love's  vows  without  restraint  ? 
And  that  old  wood,  you  call'd  your  wilderness. 
And  vow'd  in  sport  to  build  a  chapel  in  it. 
There  dwell 

"  Like  hermit  poor 
In  pensive  place  obscure," 
And  tell  your  Ave  Maries  by  the  curls 
(Dropping  like  golden  beads)  on  Margaret's  hair ; 
And  make  confession  seven  times  a  day 
Of  every  thought  that  stray'd  from  love  and  Margaret; 
And  I  your  saint  the  penance  should  appoint — 
Believe  me,  sir,  I  will  not  now  be  laid 
Aside,  like  an  old  fashion. 

JOHN. 

0  lady,  poor  and  abject  are  my  thoughts. 

My  pride  is  cured,  my  hopes  are  under  clouds, 

1  have  no  part  in  any  good  man's  love, 

In  all  earth's  pleasures  portion  have  I  none, 

I  fade  and  wither  in  my  own  esteem. 

This  earth  holds  not  alive  so  poor  a  thing  as  I  am. 

I  was  not  always  thus.  [Weeps 

MARGARET. 

Thou  noble  nature. 

Which  lion-like  didst  awe  the  inferior  creatures. 

Now  trampled  on  by  beasts  of  basest  qualify. 

My  dear  heart's  lord,  life's  pride,  soul-honor'd  John 

Upon  her  knees  (regard  her  poor  request) 

Your  favorite,  once-beloved  Margaret,  kneels. 

JOHN. 

What  wouldst  thou,  lady,  ever-honor'd  Margaret? 

MARGARET. 

That  John  would  think  more  nobly  of  himself. 

More  worthily  of  high  heaven  ; 

And  not  for  one  misfortune,  child  of  chante, 

No  crime,  but  unforeseen,  and  sent  to  punish 

The  less  offence  with  image  of  the  greater. 

Thereby  to  work  the  soul's  humihty, 

(Which  end  hath  happily  not  been  frustrate  quite), 

0  not  for  one  offence  mistrust  heaven's  mercy. 

Nor  quit  thy  hope  of  happy  days  to  come — 

John  yet  has  many  happy  days  to  live ; 

To  live  and  make  atonement. 

JOHN. 

Excellent  lady, 

Whose  suit  hath  drawTi  this  softness  from  my  eyes. 
Not  the  world's  scorn,  nor  falling  off  of  friends 
Could  ever  do.     Will  you  go  w-ith  me,  Margaret  ? 

MARGARET  (rising). 

Go  whither,  John  ? 

400 


JOHN  WOOD\aL. 


15 


JOHN. 

Go  in  with  me, 

And  pray  for  the  peace  of  our  inquiet  minds 

MARGARET. 


That  I  will,  John. — 


[Exeunt 


SCENE  II. 

An  inner  Apartment. 

John  is  discovered  kneeling. — Margaret  standing 
over  him. 

jOHiN  [rises). 
I  cannot  bear 

To  see  you  waste  that  youth  and  excellent  beautj' 
(T  is  now  the  golden  time  of  the  day  with  you). 
In  tending  such  a  broken  wretch  as  I  am. 

MARGARET. 

John  will  break  Margaret's  heart,  if  he  speak  so. 

0  sir,  sir,  sir,  you  are  too  melancholy, 

And  I  must  call  it  caprice.    I  am  somewhat  bold 
Perhaps  in  this.   But  you  are  now  my  patient, 
(You  know  you  gave  me  leave  to  call  you  so). 
And  I  must  chide  these  pestilent  humors  from  you. 

JOHN. 

They  are  gone. — 

Mark,  love,  how  cheerfully  I  speak ! 

1  can  smile  too,  and  I  almost  begin 

To  understand  what  kind  of  creature  Hope  is. 

MARGARET. 

Now  this  is  better,  this  mirth  becomes  you  John. 

JOHN. 

Yet  tell  me,  if  I  over-act  my  mirlh, 

(Being  but  a  novice,  I  may  fall  into  that  error) : 

That  were  a  sad  indecency,  you  know. 

MARGARET. 

Nay,  never  fear. 

I  will  be  mistress  of  your  humors. 

And  you  shall  frown  or  smile  by  the  book. 

And  herein  I  shall  be  most  peremptory. 

Cry,  "  this  shows  well,  but  tliat  inclines  to  levity, 

This  frown  has  too  much  of  the  Woodvil  in  it, 

But  that  fine  sunshine  has  redeem'd  it  quite." 

JOHN. 

How  sweetly  Margaret  robs  me  of  myself! 

MARGARET. 

To  give  you  in  your  stead  a  better  self  I 

Such  as  you  were,  when  these  eyes  first  beheld 

You  mounted  on  j^our  sprightly  steed.  White  Margery, 

Sir  Rowland  my  father's  gift. 

And  all  my  maidens  gave  my  heart  for  lost. 

I  was  a  young  thing  then,  being  newly  come 

Home  from  my  convent  education,  where 

Seven  years  I  had  wasted  in  the  bosom  of  France : 

Returning  home  true  Protestant,  you  call'd  me 

Your  little  heretic  nun.   How  timid-bashful 

Did  John  salute  his  love,  being  newly  seen. 

Sir  Rowland  term'd  it  a  rare  modest}', 

And  praised  it  in  a  youth. 

JOHN. 

Now  Margaret  weeps  herself    [A  noise  of  hells  heard. 

MARGARET. 

Hark  the  bells,  John. 

JOHN. 

Those  are  the  church-bells  of  St.  Mary  Ottery. 
51  212 


MARGARET. 
I  know  it. 

JOHN. 

St.  Mary  Otterv',  my  native  village 
In  the  sweet  shire  of  Devon. 
Those  are  the  bells. 

MARGARET. 

Wilt  go  to  church,  John  ? 

JOHN. 

I  have  been  there  already. 

MARGARET. 

How  canst  say  thou  hast  been  there  already? 
The  bells  are  only  now  ringing  for  morning  service, 
and  hast  thou  been  at  church  already  ? 

JOHN. 

I  left  my  bed  betimes,  I  could  not  sleep, 

And  when  I  rose,  I  look'd  (as  my  custom  i.s) 

From  my  chamber-window,  where  I  can  see  the  sun 

rise; 
And  the  first  object  I  discem'd 
Was  the  glistering  spire  of  St.  Mary  Ottery. 

MARGARET. 

W^ell,  John. 

JOHN. 

Then  I  remember'd  't  was  the  sabbath-day. 
Immediately  a  wish  arose  in  my  mind. 
To  go  to  church  and  pray  with  Chrislian  people. 
And  then  I  check'd  myself,  and  said  to  myself, 
"Thouhast  been  a  heathen,  John,  these  two  years  past 
(Not  having  been  at  church  in  all  that  time). 
And  is  it  fit,  that  now  for  the  first  time 
Thou  shouldst  offend  the  eyes  of  Christian  people 
With  a  murderer's  presence  in  the  house  of  prayer  ? 
Thou  wouldst  but  discompose  their  pious  thoughts. 
And  do  thyself  no  good :  for  how  couldst  thou  pray. 
With  unwash'd  hands,  and  lips  unused  to  the  offices  \ " 
And  then  I  at  my  own  presumption  smiled ; 
And  then  I  wept  that  I  should  smile  at  all, 
Ha\-ing  such  cause  of  grief!    I  wept  outright : 
Tears  like  a  river  flooded  all  my  face. 
And  I  began  to  pray,  and  found  I  could  pray ;  ' 
And  still  1  yearn'd  to  say  my  prayers  in  the  church. 
"  Doubtlerss  (said  I)  one  might  find  comfort  in  it." 
So  stealing  down  the  stairs,  like  one  that  fear'd  de 

tcction, 
Or  was  about  to  act  unlawful  business 
At  that  dead  time  of  dawn, 

I  flew  to  the  church,  and  found  the  doors  wide  open, 
(Whether  by  neghgence  I  knew  not, 
Or  some  peculiar  grace  to  me  vouchsafed, 
For  all  things  felt  like  mystery). 

MARGARET. 

Yes. 

JOHN. 

So  entering  in,  not  without  fear, 

I  past  into  the  family-pew. 

And  covering  up  my  eyes  for  shame. 

And  deep  perception  of  unworthiness, 

Upon  the  little  hassock  knelt  me  down, 

Where  I  so  oft  had  kneel'd, 

A  docile  infant  by  Sir  Walter's  side  ; 

And,  thinking  so,  I  wept  a  second  flood 

More  poignant  than  the  first; 

But  afterwards  was  greatly  comforted. 

It  seem'd,  the  guilt  of  blood  was  passing  from  me 

Even  in  the  act  and  agony  of  tears, 

And  all  my  sins  forgiven. 

401 


Kin  22FCtcn; 

A  DRAMATIC  SKETCH  OF  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 


CHARACTERS. 


Old  Servant 


the  Family  of  Sir  Francis  Fairford. 
Stranger. 


SERVANT. 

One  summer  night,  Sir  Francis,  as  it  chanced, 

Was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  avenue 

That  westward  fronts  our  house. 

Among  those  aged  oaks,  said  to  have  been  planted 

Three  hundred  years  ago 

By  a  neighboring  prior  of  the  Fairford  name. 

Being  o'ertask'd  in  thought,  he  heeded  not 

The  importunate  suit  of  one  who  stood  by  the  gate, 

And  begged  an  alms. 

Some  say  he  shoved  her  rudely  from  the  gate 

With  angry  chiding ;  but  I  can  never  think 

(Our  master's  nature  hath  a  sweetness  in  it) 

That  he  could  use  a  woman,  an  old  woman, 

With  such  discourtesy :  but  he  refused  her — 

And  better  had  he  met  a  lion  in  his  path 

Tlian  that  old  woman  that  night : 

For  she  was  one  who  practised  the  black  arts. 

And  served  the  devil,  being  since  burnt  for  witchcraft. 

She  look'd  at  him  as  one  that  meant  to  blast  him, 

And  with  a  frightful  noise 

('T  was  partly  like  a  woman's  voice, 

And  partly  like  the  hissing  of  a  snake), 

She  nothing  said  but  this : — 

(Sir  Francis  told  the  words) 

A  mischief,  mischief  mischief, 

Arid  a  nine-times-killing  curse. 
By  day  and  by  night,  to  the  cailif  wight, 
^^'ho  shahes  the  poor  like  snakes  from  his  door. 

And  shuts  xip  the  womb  of  his  purse. 
And  still  she  cried 

A  mischief, 
And  a  nine-fold  withering  curse  : 
For  that  shall  come  to  thee  that  vjill  undo  thee. 
Both  all  that  thou  fearest  and  worse. 


So  saying,  she  departed. 
Leaving  Sir  Francis  like  a  man,  beneath 
Whose  feet  a  scaffolding  was  suddenly  falling ; 
So  he  described  it. 

STRANGER. 

A  terrible  curse  !  What  followed  ? 

SERVANT. 

Nothing  immediate,  but  some  two  months  after 

Young  Phihp  Fairford  suddenly  fell  sick. 

And  none  could  tell  what  ailed  him ;  for  he  lay 

And  pined,  and  pined,  till  all  his  hair  fell  off, 

And  he  that  was  full-flesh'd,  became  as  thin 

As  a  two-months'  babe  that  has  been  starved  in  the 

nursing. 
And  sure  I  think  ; 

He  bore  his  death- wound  like  a  little  child  ;  j 

With  such  rare  sweetness  of  dumb  melancholy         I 
He  strove  to  clothe  his  agony  in  smiles,  j 

Which  he  would  force  up  in  his  poor  pale  cheeks,   j 
Like  ill-timed  guests  that  had  no  proper  dwellingl 

there ; 
And,  when  they  ask'd  him  his  complaint,  he  laid     ! 
His  hand  upon  his  heart,  to  show  the  place  j 

Where  Susan  came  to  him  a-nights,  he  said,  j 

And  prick'd  him  with  a  pin. —  | 

And  thereupon  Sir  Francis  call'd  to  mind 
The  beggar-witch  that  stood  by  the  gateway 
And  begged  an  alms. 

STRANGER. 

But  did  the  witch  confess  ? 

SERVANT. 

All  this  and  more  at  her  death. 

STRANGER. 

I  do  not  love  to  credit  tales  of  magic. 
Heaven's  music,  which  is  Order,  seems  unstrung, 
And  this  brave  world 
(The  mystery  of  God)  unbeautified, 
Disorder'd,  marr'd,  where  such  strange  things  an 
acted. 


Jiilt!^reUaneottsE>  Jlorm^. 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply. 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavor. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  w^ormy  bed 
A  nd  her  together. 


A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate. 
That  flush'd  her  spirit. 


I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied. 
She  did  inherit. 

402 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool, 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore. 
Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning? 


TO  CHARLES  LLOYD, 
AN  UNEXPECTED   VISITOR. 

Alone,  obscure,  without  a  friend, 

A  cheerless,  solitary  thing. 
Why  seeks  my  Lloyd  the  stranger  out? 

What  offering  can  the  stranger  bring 

Of  social  scenes,  home-bred  delights. 
That  him  in  aught  compensate  may 

For  Stowey's  pleasant  winter  nights, 
For  loves  and  friendships  far  away  ? 

In  brief  oblivion  to  forego 

Friends,  such  as  thine,  so  justly  dear. 
And  be  awhile  with  me  content 

To  stay,  a  kindly  loiterer,  here : 

For  this  a  gleam  of  random  joy 

Hath  flush'd  my  unaccustora'd  cheek  ; 

And,  with  an  o'ercharged  bursting  heart, 
I  feel  the  thanks  I  cannot  speak. 

Oh !  sweet  are  all  the  Muses'  laj's, 
And  sweet  the  charm  of  matin  bird  ; 

'T  was  long  since  these  estranged  ears 
The  sweeter  voice  of  friend  had  heard. 

The  voice  hath  spoke :  the  pleasant  sounds 

In  memory's  ear  in  after-time 
Shall  live,  to  sometimes  rouse  a  tear. 

And  sometimes  prompt  an  honest  rhyme. 

For,  when  the  transient  charm  is  fled. 
And  when  the  little  week  is  o'er, 

To  cheerless,  friendless,  solitude 
When  I  return,  as  heretofore, 

Long,  long,  within  my  aching  heart 
The  grateful  sense  shall  cherish'd  be  ; 

I  '11  think  less  meanly  of  myself. 

That  Lloyd  will  sometimes  think  on  me. 


THC  THREE  FRIENDS. 

Three  young  maids  in  friendship  met 


Mary,  Martha,  Margaret, 


Margaret  was  tall  and  fair, 

Martha  shorter  by  a  hair ; 

If  the  first  excell'd  in  feature. 

The  other's  grace  and  ease  were  greater ; 

Mary,  though  to  rival  loth, 

In  her  best  gifts  equal) 'd  both. 

They  a  due  proportion  kept ; 

Martha  mourn'd  if  Margaret  wept ; 

Margaret  joy'd  when  any  good 

She  of  Martha  understood  ; 

And  in  sympathy  for  either 

Mary  was  outdone  by  neither. 

Thus  far,  for  a  happy  space, 

All  three  ran  an  even  race, 

A  most  constant  friendship  proving 

Equally  beloved  and  loving ; 

All  their  wishes,  joys,  the  same  ; 

Sisters  only  not  in  name. 


Fortune  upon  each  one  smiled, 
As  upon  a  fav'rite  child  ; 
Well  to  do  and  well  to  see 
Were  the  parents  of  all  three ; 
Till  on  Martha's  father  crosses 
Brought  a  flood  of  worldly  losses. 
And  his  fortunes  rich  and  great 
Changed  at  once  to  low  estate ; 
Under  which  o'erwhelming  blow 
Martha's  mother  was  laid  low ; 
She,  a  hapless  orphan  left. 
Of  maternal  care  bereft, 
Trouble  following  trouble  fast. 
Lay  in  a  sick  bed  at  last. 

In  the  depth  of  her  affliction 
Martha  now  received  conviction, 
That  a  true  and  faithful  friend 
Can  the  surest  comfort  lend. 
Night  and  day,  with  friendship  tried, 
Ever  constant  by  her  side 
Was  her  gentle  Mary  found. 
With  a  love  that  knew  no  bound ; 
And  the  solace  she  imparted 
Saved  her  dying  broken-hearted. 

In  this  scene  of  earthly  things 
Not  one  good  unmixed  springs. 
That  which  had  to  Martha  proved 
A  sweet  consolation,  moved 
Different  feelings  of  regret 
In  the  mind  of  Margaret. 
She,  whose  love  w'as  not  less  dear, 
Nor  affection  less  sincere 
To  her  friend,  was,  by  occasion 
Of  more  distant  habitation. 
Fewer  visits  forced  to  pay  her. 
When  no  other  cause  did  stay  her ; 
And  her  Mary  living  nearer, 
Margaret  began  to  fear  her. 
Lest  her  visits  day  by  day 
Martha's  heart  should  steal  away. 
That  whole  heart  she  ill  could  spare  her 
Where  till  now  she  'd  been  a  sharer. 
From  this  cause  with  grief  she  pined. 
Till  at  length  her  health  declined. 

403 


18 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  her  clieeriul  spirits  flew, 
Fast  as  Martha  gatiier'd  new  ; 
And  her  sickness  waxed  sore, 
Just  when  Martha  felt  no  more. 

Mary,  who  had  quick  suspicion 
Of  her  alter'd  friend's  condition, 
Seeing  Martha's  convalescence 
Less  demanded  now  her  presence, 
With  a  goodness,  built  on  reason. 
Changed  her  measures  with  the  season ; 
Turn'd  her  steps  from  Martha's  door. 
Went  where  she  was  wanted  more ; 
All  her  care  and  thoughts  were  set 
Now  to  tend  on  Margaret. 
Maiy,  living  'twixt  the  two. 
From  her  home  could  oft'ner  go. 
Either  of  her  friends  to  see, 
Than  they  could  together  be. 

Truth  explain'd  is  to  suspicion 
Evermore  the  best  physician. 
Soon  her  visits  had  the  effect ; 
All  that  Margaret  did  suspect. 
From  her  fimcy  vanish'd  clean ; 
She  was  soon  what  she  had  been. 
And  the  color  she  did  lack 
To  her  faded  cheek  came  back. 
Wounds  which  love  had  made  her  feel. 
Love  alone  had  power  to  heal. 

Martha,  who  the  frequent  \-isit 
Now  had  lost,  and  sore  did  miss  it. 
With  impatience  waxed  cross, 
Counted  Margaret's  gain  her  loss ; 
All  that  Mary  did  confer 
On  her  friend,  thought  due  to  her. 
In  her  girlish  bosom  rise 
Little  foolish  jealousies. 
Which  unto  such  rancor  wrought. 
She  one  day  for  Margaret  sought  ; 
Finding  her  by  chance  alone, 
She  began  with  reasons  shown, 
To  insinuate' a  fear 
Whether  JMarj^  was  sincere  ; 
Wish'd  that  ?.Iargaret  would  take  heed 
Wlience  her  actions  did  proceed. 
For  herself  she'd  long  been  minded 
Not  with  outsides  to  be  blinded  ; 
All  that  pity  and  compassion. 
She  believed,  was  affectation; 
In  her  heart  she  doubted  whether 
]Mary  cared  a  pin  for  either. 
She  could  keep  whole  weeks  at  distance, 
And  not  know  of  their  existence, 
While  all  things  reinain'd  the  same ; 
But.  when  some  misfortune  came, 
Then  she  made  a  great  parade 
Of  her  sympathy  and  aid, — 
Not  that  she  did  really  grieve, 
It  was  only  make-believe. 
And  she  cared  for  nothing,  so 
She  might  her  fine  feelings  show. 
And  get  credit,  on  her  part. 
For  a  soft  and  tender  heart. 


With  such  speeches,  smoothly  made, 
She  found  methods  to  persuade 
Margaret  (who,  being  sore 
From  the  doubts  she  'd  felt  before. 
Was  prepared  for  mistrust) 
To  believe  her  reasons  just , 
Quite  destroy'd  that  comfort  glad 
Which  in  Mary  late  she  had  ; 
Made  her,  in  experience'  spite. 
Think  her  friend  a  hypocrite, 
And  resolve,  with  cruel  scoff, 
To  renounce  and  cast  her  off! 

See  how  good  turns  are  rewarded . 
She  of  both  is  now  discarded. 
Who  to  both  had  been  so  late 
Their  support  in  low  estate. 
All  their  comfort,  and  their  stay — 
Now  of  both  is  cast  away. 
But  the  league  her  presence  cher^«h'd. 
Losing  its  best  prop,  soon  perish'd ; 
She,  that  was  a  link  to  either. 
To  keep  them  and  it  together. 
Being  gone,  the  two  (no  wonder) 
That  were  left,  soon  fell  asunder ; — 
Some  civilities  were  kept. 
But  the  heart  of  friendship  slept : 
Love  with  hollow  forms  was  fed. 
But  the  life  of  love  lay  dead  : 
A  cold  intercourse  they  held, 
After  Mary  was  expelld. 

Two  long  years  did  intervene 
Since  they  'd  either  of  them  seen. 
Or,  by  letter,  any  word 
Of  their  old  companion  heard, — 
When,  upon  a  dav,  once  walking. 
Of  indifferent  matters  talking. 
They  a  female  figure  met ; — 
Martha  said  to  Margaret, 
"  That  young  maid  in  face  does  carry 
A  resemblance  strong  of  Mary." 
Margaret,  at  nearer  sight, 
Ovvn'd  her  observation  right ; 
But  they  did  not  far  proceed 
Ere  they  knew  't  was  she  indeed. 
She — but,  ah !  how  changed  they  view  her 
From  that  person  which  they  knew  her ! 
Her  fine  face  disease  had  scarr'd. 
And  its  matchless  beauty  marr'd  : — 
But  enough  was  left  to  trace 
Mary's  sweetness — Mary's  grace. 
When  her  eye  did  first  behold  them. 
How  they  blush'd  I — but,  when  she  told  them. 
How  on  a  sick  bed  she  lay 
Months,  while  they  had  kept  away, 
And  had  no  inquiries  made 
If  she  were  alive  or  dead  ; — 
How,  for  want  of  a  true  friend. 
She  was  brought  near  to  her  end. 
And  was  like  so  to  have  died. 
With  no  friend  at  her  bed-side ; — 
How  the  constant  irritation. 
Caused  by  fruitless  expectation 
Of  their  coming,  had  extended 
Theillness,  when  she  might  have  mended, — 

404 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


19 


Then,  O  then,  how  did  reflection 
Come  on  them  with  recollection ! 
All  that  she  had  done  for  them. 
How  it  did  their  fault  condemn ! 

But  sweet  Mary,  still  the  same. 
Kindly  eased  them  of  their  shame ; 
Spoke  to  them  with  accents  bland, 
Took  them  friendly  by  the  hand  ; 
Bound  them  both  with  promise  fast, 
Not  to  speak  of  troubles  past  ; 
Made  them  on  the  spot  declare 
A  new  league  of  friendship  there ; 
Which,  without  a  word  of  strife, 
Lasted  thenceforth  long  as  life. 
Martha  now  and  Margaret 
Strove  who  most  should  pay  the  debt 
Which  they  owed  her,  nor  did  vary 
Ever  after  from  their  Mary. 


TO  A  RIVER  IN  WHICH  A  CHILD  WAS 
DROWNED. 

Smiling  river,  smiling  river. 

On  thy  bosom  sunbeams  play ; 
Though  they're  fleeting,  and  retreating, 

Thou  hast  more  deceit  than  they. 

In  thy  channel,  in  thy  channel. 

Choked  with  ooze  and  grav'Uy  stones. 

Deep  immersed,  and  unhearsed, 

Lies  young  Edwards  corse  :  his  bones 

Ever  whitening,  ever  whitening, 
As  thy  waves  against  them  dash; 

What  thy  torrent  in  the  current. 
Swallow 'd,  now  it  helps  to  wash. 

As  if  senseless,  as  if  senseless 
Things  had  feeling  in  this  case ; 

What  so  blindly  and  unkindly, 
It  destroy'd,  it  now  does  grace. 


THE  OLD  FAi\nLIAR  FACES. 

HAVE  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions. 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing. 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  love  once,  fairest  among  women  , 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
' '  All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  ; 
;  Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly ; 
!  Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

.  Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
i  Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother. 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 


How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me 
And  some  are  taken  from  me ;  all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


HELEN. 

High-born  Helen,  round  your  dwelling 
These  twenty  years  I  've  paced  in  vain  ■ 

Haught}'  beauty,  thy  lover's  duty 
Hath  been  to  glory  in  his  pain. 

High-born  Helen,  proudly  telling 

Stories  of  thy  cold  disdain  ; 
I  starve,  I  die,  now  you  comply. 

And  I  no  longer  can  complain. 

These  twenty  years  I  've  lived  on  tears. 
Dwelling  for  ever  on  a  frov\-n  ; 

On  sighs  I  've  fed,  your  scorn  my  bread; 
I  perish  now,  you  kind  are  grown. 

Can  I,  who  loved  my  beloved 

But  for  the  scorn  "  was  in  her  eye," 

Can  I  be  moved  for  mv  beloved, 

When  she  "  returns  me  sigh  for  sigh  ? " 

In  stately  pride,  by  my  bed-side, 
High-born  Helen's  portrait's  hung; 

Deaf  to  my  praise,  my  mournful  lays 
Are  nightly  to  the  portrait  sung. 

To  that  I  weep,  nor  ever  sleep. 

Complaining  all  night  long  to  her — 

Helen,  grown  old,  no  longer  cold. 
Said,  "  you  to  all  men  I  prefer." 


A  VISION  OF  REPENTAiNCE. 

I  SAW  a  famous  fountain,  in  my  dream. 
Where  shady  pathways  to  a  valley  led  ; 

A  weeping  willow  lay  upon  thai  stream. 

And  all  around  the  fountain  brink  were  spread 

W^ide  branching  trees,  with  dark-green  leaf  rich  clad, 

Forming  a  doubtful  twilight — desolate  and  sad. 

The  place  was  such,  that  whoso  entcr'd  in. 
Disrobed  was  of  every  earthly  thought. 

And  straight  became  as  one  that  knew  not  sin. 
Or  to  the  world's  first  innocence  was  brought; 

Enseeni'd  it  now,  he  stood  on  holy  ground. 

In  sweet  and  tender  melancholy  wrapt  around. 

A  most  strange  calm  stole  o'er  my  soothed  sprite ; 

Long  time  I  stood,  and  longer  had  I  staid. 
When,  lo !  I  saw,  saw  by  the  sweet  moonlight. 

Which  came  in  silence  o'er  that  silent  shade, 
Where,  near  the  fountain,  something  like  despair 
Made,  of  that  weeping  willow,  garlands  for  her  hair 

And  eke  with  painful  fingers  she  inwove 
Many  an  uncouth  stem  of  savage  thom — 

"The  willow  garland,  that  was  for  her  love. 
And  these  her  bleeding  temples  would  adorn." 

With  sighs  her  heart  nigh  burst,  salt  tears  fast  fell. 

As  mournfully  she  bended  o'er  that  sacred  well. 

405 


2D 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  whom  when  I  addrest  mj'self  to  speak, 
She  lifted  up  her  eyes,  and  nothing  said ; 

The  deUcate  red  came  mantling  o'er  her  cheek, 
And,  gathering  up  her  loose  attire,  she  fled 

To  the  dark  covert  of  that  woody  shade. 

And  in  her  goings  seem'd  a  timid  gentle  maid. 

Revolving  in  my  mind  what  this  should  mean. 
And  why  that  lovely  lady  plained  so  ; 

Perplex'd  in  thought  at  that  mysterious  scene, 
And  doubting  if  'twere  best  to  stay  or  go, 

I  cast  mine  eyes  in  wistful  gaze  around, 

When  from  the  shades  came  slow  a  small  and  plain 
tive  sound. 

"  Psyche  am  I,  who  love  to  dwell 
In  these  brown  shades,  this  woody  dell, 
Where  never  busy  mortal  came. 
Till  now,  to  pry  upon  my  shame. 

At  thy  feet  what  thou  dost  see 
The  waters  of  repentance  be, 
.  Which,  night  and  day,  I  must  augment 
With  tears,  Uke  a  true  penitent 

If  haply  so  my  day  of  grace 
Be  not  yet  past ;  and  this  lone  place, 
0"er-shadowy,dark,  excludeth  hence 
All  thoughts  but  grief  and  penitence." 

"Why  dost  thou  weep,  thou  gentle  maid! 
And  wherefore  in  this  barren  shade 
Thy  hidden  thoughts  with  sorrow  feed  ? 
Can  thing  so  fair  repentan£e  need?" 

"  O !  I  have  done  a  deed  of  shame, 
And  tainted  is  my  virgin  fame, 
And  stain'd  the  beauteous  maiden  white 
In  which  my  bridal  robes  were  dight." 

"And  who  the  promised  spouse,  declare  : 
And  what  those  bridal  garments  were." 

"  Severe  and  saintly  righteousness 
Composed  the  clear  white  bridal  dress ; 
Jesus,  the  son  of  Heaven's  high  king, 
Bought  with  his  blood  the  marriage-ring. 

"  A  wretched  sinful  creature,  I 
Deem'd  lightly  of  that  sacred  tie, 
Gave  to  a  treacherous  world  my  heart, 
And  play'd  the  foolish  wanton's  part. 

"  Soon  to  these  murky  shades  I  came. 

To  hide  from  the  sun's  light  my  shame, 

And  still  I  haunt  this  woody  dell. 

And  bathe  me  in  that  healing  well, 

Whose  waters  clear  have  influence 

From  sin's  foul  stains  the  soul  to  cleanse ; 

And,  night  and  day,  I  them  augment 

With  tears,  like  a  true  penitent : 

Until,  due  expiation  made. 

And  fit  atonement  tally  paid. 

The  lora  and  bridegroom  me  present, 

Where,  in  sweet  strains  of  high  consent, 

God's  throne  before,  the  Seraphim 

Shall  chaunt  the  ecstatic  marriage-hymn." 

"Now  Christ  restore  thee  soon'' — I  said, 
And  thenceforth  all  my  dream  was  fled. 


DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  A  MOTHER  AND  CHILD 
CHILD. 

"  O  LADY,  lav  your  costly  robes  aside, 
No  longer  may  you  glory  in  your  pride." 

MOTHER. 

Wherefore  to-day  art  singing  in  mine  ear 
Sad  songs,  were  made  so  long  ago,  my  dear ; 
This  day  I  am  to  be  a  bride,  you  know, 
Why  sing  sad  songs,  were  made  so  long  ago  ? 

CHILD. 

O,  mother  lay  your  costly  robes  aside. 
For  you  may  never  be  another's  bride. 
Tluat  Une  I  learn'd  not  in  the  old  sad  song. 

MOTHER. 

I  pray  thee,  pretty  one,  now  hold  thy  tongue. 
Play  with  the  bride-maids,  and  be  glad,  my  boy 
For  thou  shalt  be  a  second  father's  joy. 

CHILD. 

One  father  fondled  me  upon  his  knee. 
One  father  is  enough,  alone,  for  me. 


QUEEN  ORIANA'S  DREAM. 

0.\  a  bank  with  roses  shaded, 
Whose  sweet  scent  the  violet-s  aided, 
Violet-s  whose  breath  alone 
Yields  but  feeble  smell  or  none, 
(Sweeter  bed  Jove  ne'er  reposed  on 
When  his  eyes  Olympus  closed  on), 
While  o'er  head  six  slaves  did  hold 
Canopy  of  cloth  o'  gold. 
And  two  more  did  music  keep, 
Which  might  Juno  lull  to  sleep, — 
Oriana,  who  was  queen 
To  the  mighty  Tamerlane, 
That  was  lord  of  all  the  land 
Between  Thrace  and  Samarchand, 
While  the  noon-tide  fervor  beam'd, 
Mused  herself  to  sleep,  and  dream'd. 

Thus  far,  in  magnific  strain, 
A  young  poet  soothed  his  vein, 
But  he  had  nor  prose  nor  numbers 
To  express  a  princess'  slumbers. — 
Youthful  Richard  had  strange  fancies. 
Was  deep  versed  in  old  romances, 
And  could  talk  whole  hours  upon 
The  great  Cham  and  Prester  John, — 
Tell  the  field  in  which  the  Sophi 
P'rom  the  Tartar  won  a  trophy — 
What  he  read  with  such  delight  of. 
Thought  he  could  as  easily  write  of — 
But  his  over-young  invention 
Kept  not  pace  witli  brave  intention. 
Twenty  suns  did  rise  and  set. 
And  he  could  no  further  get ; 
But,  unable  to  proceed. 
Made  a  virtue  out  of  need. 
And  his  labors  wiselier  deem'd  of. 
Did  omit  what  the  queen  dream'd  cf. 
406 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


21 


A  BALLAD, 

NOTING  THE  DIFFERENCE  OF  RICH  AND  POOR,  IN 
THE  WAYS  OF  A  RICH  NOBLE's  PALACE  AND  A  POOR 
WORKHOUSE. 


To  the  Tune  of  the  "  Old  and  Young  Courtier." 


In  a  costly  palace  Youth  goes  clad  in  gold  ; 
In  a  wretched  workhouse  Age's  limbs  are  cold : 
There  they  sit,  the  old  men  by  a  shivering  fire, 
Still  close  and  closer  cowering,  warmth  is  their  desire. 

In  a  costly  palace,  when  the  brave  gallants  dine, 
Thev  have  store  of  good  venison,  with  old  canary  wine, 
With  sindng  and  music  to  heighten  the  cheer  ; 
Coarse  bits,  with  grudging,  are  the  pauper's  best  fare. 

In  a  costly  palace  Youth  is  still  caress'd 

By  a  train  of  attendants  which  laugh  at  my  young 

Lord's  jest ; 
In  a  wretched  workhouse  the  contrary  prevails : 
Does  Age  begin  to  prattle  ? — no  man  heark'nelh  to 

his  tales. 

In  a  costly  palace,  if  the  child  with  a  pin 

Do  but  chance  to  prick  a  finger,  straight  the  doctor  is 

called  in  \ 
In  a  wretched  w^orkhouse  men  are  left  to  perish 
For  want  of  proper  cordials,  which  their  old  age 

might  cherish. 

In  a  costly  palace  Youth  enjoys  his  lust ; 
In  a  wretched  workhouse,  Age,  in  corners  thrust, 
Thinks  upon  the  former  days,  when  he  was  well  to  c'.o, 
Had  children  to  stand  by  him,  both  friends  and  kins- 
men too. 

In  a  costly  palace  Youth  his  temples  hides 
With  a  new  devised  peruke  that  reaches  to  his  sides; 
In  a  wretched  workhouse  Age's  crown  is  bare, 
With  a  few  thin  locks  just  to  fence  out  the  cold  air. 

In  peace,  as  in  war,  't  is  our  young  gallants'  pride, 
To  walk,  each  one  i'  the  streets,wilh  a  rapier  by  his  side, 
That  none  to  do  them  injury  may  have  pretence ; 
Wretched  Age,  in  poverty,  must  brook 'offence. 


HYPOCHONDRIACUS. 

By  myself  walking, 
To  myself  talking. 
When  as  I  ruminate 
On  my  untoward  fate. 
Scarcely  seem  I 
Alone  sufficiently, 
Black  thoughts  continually 
Crowding  my  privacy ; 
They  come  unbidden. 
Like  foes  at  a  wedding. 
Thrusting  their  faces 
In  better  guests'  places. 
Peevish  and  malcontent. 
Clownish,  impertinent, 
Dashinfr  the  merriment : 


So  in  like  fashions 

Dim  cogitations 

Follow  and  haunt  me, 

Striving  to  daunt  me. 

In  my  heart  festering. 

In  my  ears  whispering, 

"  Thy  friends  are  trepcherous, 

Thy  foes  are  dangerous, 

Tliy  dreams  ominous." 

Fierce  Anthropophagi, 
Spectra,  Diaboli, 
W^hat  scared  St.  Anthony, 
Hobgoblins,  Lemures, 
Dreams  of  Antipodes, 
Night-riding  Incubi 
Troubling  the  fantasy, 
All  dire  illusions 
Causing  confusions ; 
Figments  heretical, 
Scruples  fantastical. 
Doubts  diabolical, 
Abaddon  vexelh  me, 
Mahu  perplexeth  me, 
Lucifer  tcareth  me 

Jesul  Maria!  liberata  nos  ah  his  diris  tentationibus 
Inimici. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 
Straight  confound  my  stammering  verse, 
If  I  can  a  passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity. 
Or  a  fit  expression  find. 
Or  a  language  to  my  mind, 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant) 
To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant  ! 
Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Flalf  my  love,  or  half  my  hate  : 
For  I  hate,  yet  love,  thee  so. 
That,  whichever  thing  I  show. 
The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A  constrain'd  hyperbole, 
And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  from  a  mistress  than  a  weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine, 
Bacchus'  black  servant,  negro  fine ; 
Sorcerer,  that  makest  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion. 
And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake. 
More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
'Gainst  women :  thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much  too  in  the  female  wav. 
While  thou  suck'st  the  lab" ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a  cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us. 
And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooiing  at  us ; 
While  each  man.  throuch  thy  heightening  slearc 
Does  like  a  smoking  Etna  seem. 

407 


22 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 
A  Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a  mist  dost  show  us, 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features, 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 
Liken'st  us  to  fell  Chimeras, 
Monsters  that,  who  see  us,  fear  us ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 
Or,  who  first  loved  a  cloud,  Ixion. 

Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.     But  what  art  thou, 
That  but  by  reflex  canst  show 
What  his  deity  can  do, 
As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 
Some  few  vapors  thou  mayst  raise. 
The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze, 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Canst  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  bom. 
The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 
Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god's  victories  than  before 
All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 
These,  as  stale,  we  disallow. 
Or  judge  of  thee  meant :  only  thou   ^ 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art; 
And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart. 
The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A  finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne'er  presume 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 
None  so  sov'reign  to  the  brain. 
Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 
Framed  again  no  second  smell. 
Rt/aes,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys. 
Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 
Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking'st  of  the  stinking  kind. 
Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind, 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foyson, 
Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison. 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite 

Nay,  rather, 
Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue ; 
Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you. 
'T  was  but  in  a  sort  I  blamed  thee  ; 
None  e'er  prosper'd  who  defamed  thee ; 
Irony  all,  and  feign'd  abuse. 
Such  as  perplexed  lovers  use 
At  a  need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 
Or  m  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 


Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike. 
They  borrow  language  of  disUke  \ 
And,  instead  of  Dearest  Miss, 
Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 
And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 
Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 
Basilisk,  and  all  that 's  evil. 
Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 
Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more  ; 
Friendly  Trail' ress,  loving  Foe, — 
Not  that  she  is  truly  so, 
But  no  other  way  they  know 
A  contentment  to  express, 
Borders  so  upon  excess, 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrain'd  to  part 
With  what's  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow 's  at  the  height, 
Lose  discrimination  quite. 
And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall. 
To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 
On  the  darhng  thing  whatever. 
Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce. 
Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I  must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee. 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I  must)  leave  thee 
For  thy  sake,  tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die. 
And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 
But,  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A  king's  consort,  is  a  queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state. 
Though  a  widow,  or  divorced. 
So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced. 
The  old  name  and  style  retain, 

A  right  Catherine  of  Spain  ; 

And  a  seat,  too,  'mongst  the  joys 

Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys  ; 

Where,  though  I,  by  sour  physician 

Am  debarr'd  the  full  fruition 

Of  thy  favors,  I  may  catch 

Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 

Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 

Like  glances  from  a  neighbor's  wife  ; 

And  still  live  in  the  by-places 

And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces ; 

And  in  thy  lyjrders  take  delight, 

An  unconquer'd  Canaanite. 


TO  T.  L.  H. 

A  CHILD. 

Model  of  thy  parent  deap 
Serious  infant  worth  a  fear;- 
In  thy  unfaltering  visage  well 
Piclurina  forth  the  son  of  Tell, 
When  on  his  forehead,  firm  and  good. 
Motionless  mark,  the  apple  stood  ; 

408 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


23 


Guileless  traitor,  rebel  mild, 

Convict  unconscious,  culprit-child  I 

Gates  that  close  with  iron  roar 

Have  been  to  thee  thy  nursery-door; 

Chains  that  clink  in  cheerless  cells 

Have  been  thy  rattles  and  thy  bells ; 

Walls  contrived  for  giant  sin 

Have  hemm'd  thy  faultless  weakness  in  ; 

Near  thy  sinless  bed  black  Guilt 

Her  discordant  house  hath  built, 

And  fiU'd  it  with  her  monstrous  brood — 

Sights,  by  thee  not  understood — 

Sights  of  fear,  and  of  distress. 

That  pass  a  harmless  infant's  guess ! 

But  the  clouds,  that  overcast 
Thy  young  morning,  may  not  last. 
Soon  shall  arrive  the  rescuing  hour. 
That  yields  thee  up  to  Nature's  power. 
Nature,  that  so  late  doth  greet  thee. 
Shall  in  o'erflowing  measure  meet  thee. 
She  shall  recompense  with  cost 
For  every  lesson  thou  hast  lost. 
Then  wandering  up  thy  sire's  loved  hill,' 
Thou  shalt  take  thy  airy  fill 
Of  health  and  pastime.    Birds  shall  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning. 
'Mid  new-yearn'd  lamblvins  thou  shalt  play, 
Hardly  less  a  lamb  than  they. 
Then  thy  prison's  lengthen'd  bound 
Shall  be  the  horizon  skirting  round. 
And,  while  thou  fillest  thy  lap  with  flowers, 
To  make  amends  for  wintry  hours. 
The  breeze,  the  sunshine,  and  the  place, 
Shall  from  thy  tender  brow  efface 
Each  vestige  of  untimely  care. 
That  sour  restraint  had  graven  there  ; 
And  on  thy  every  look  impress 
A  more  excelling  childishness. 

So  shall  be  thy  days  beguiled, 
Thornton  Hunt,  my  favorite  child. 


BALLAD. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


The  clouds  are  blackening,  the  storms  threatening. 
And  ever  the  forest  maketh  a  moan  : 

Billows  are  breaking,  the  damsel's  heart  aching, 
Thus  by  herself  she  singeth  alone, 
Weeping  right  plenteously. 

■'The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely. 

In  this  world  plainly  all  seemeth  amiss : 
To  thy  breast,  holy  one,  take  now  thy  little  one, 
ij    I  have  had  earnest  of  all  earth's  bliss, 
Living  right  lovingly." 


DAVID  IN  THE  CAVE  OF  ADULLAM. 

David  and  his  three  captains  bold 
Kept  ambush  once  within  a  hold. 


It  was  in  Adullam's  cave. 

Nigh  which  no  water  they  could  have. 

Nor  spring,  nor  nnming  brook  was  near 

To  quench  the  thirst  that  parch'd  them  there 

Then  David,  king  of  Israel, 

Straight  bethought  him  of  a  well, 

Which  stood  beside  the  city  gate. 

At  Bethlehem;  where,  before  his  state 

Of  kingly  dignity,  he  had 

Oft  drunk  his  fill,  a  shepherd  lad  ; 

But  now  his  fierce  Philistine  foe 

Encamp'd  before  it  he  does  know. 

Yet  ne'er  the  less,  with  heat  opprest, 

Those  three  bold  captains  he  add  rest, 

And  wish'd  that  one  to  him  Would  bring 

Some  water  from  his  native  spring. 

His  valiant  captains  instantly 

To  execute  his  will  did  fly. 

The  mighty  Three  the  ranks  broke  through 

Of  armed  foes,  and  water  drew 

For  David,  their  beloved  king, 

At  his  own  sweet  native  spring. 

Back  through  their  armed  foes  they  haste: 

With  the  hard-earn'd  treasure  graced. 

But  when  the  good  king  David  found 

What  they  had  done,  he  on  the  ground 

The  water  pour'd.    "  Because,"  said  he, 

"  That  it  was  at  the  jeopardy 

Of  your  three  lives  this  thing  ye  did, 

That  I  should  drink  it,  God  forbid." 


SALOME. 


52 


1  Hampstead. 


2K 


Once  on  a  charger  there  was  laid, 
And  brought  before  a  royal  maid. 
As  price  of  attitude  and  grace, 
A  guiltless  head,  a  holy  face. 

It  was  on  Herod's  natal  day. 
Who  o'er  Judea's  land  held  sway. 
He  married  his  own  brother  s  wife, 
Wicked  Herodias.    She  the  life 
Of  John  the  Baptist  long  had  sought. 
Because  he  openly  had  taught 
That  she  a  life  unlawful  led. 
Having  her  husband's  brother  wed. 

This  was  he,  that  saintly  John, 
Who  in  the  wilderness  alone 
Abiding,  did  for  clothing  wear 
A  garment  made  of  camels'  hair; 
Honey  and  locusts  were  his  food, 
And  he  was  most  severely  good. 
He  preached  penitence  and  tears. 
And  waking  first  the  sinner's  fears, 
Prepared  a  path,  made  smooth  a  way, 
For  his  diviner  Master's  day. 

Herod  kept  in  princely  state 
His  birth-day.   On  his  throne  he  sate, 
After  the  feast,  beholding  her 
Who  danced  with  grace  peculiar ; 
Fair  Salome,  who  did  excel 
All  in  that  land  for  dancing  well. 
The  feastful  monarch's  heart  was  fired. 
And  whate'er  thing  she  desired, 

409 


24 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Though  half  his  kingdom  it  should  be, 
He  in  his  pleasure  swore  that  he 
Would  give  the  graceful  Salome. 
The  damsel  was  Herodias'  daughter  : 
She  to  the  queen  hastes,  and  besought  her 
To  teach  her  what  great  gift  to  name. 
Instructed  by  Herodias,  came 
The  damsel  back  ;  to  Herod  said, 
♦'  Give  me  John  the  Baptist's  head  ; 
And  in  a  charger  let  it  be 
Hither  straightway  brought  to  me." 
Herod  her  suit  would  fain  deny, 
But  for  his  oath's  sake  must  comply. 

When  painters  would  by  art  express 
Beauty  in  unloveliness, 
Thee,  Herodias'  daughter,  thee, 
They  fittest  subject  take  to  be. 
They  give  thy  form  and  features  grace ; 
But  ever  in  thy  beauteous  face 
They  show  a  stedfast  cruel  gaze, 
An  eye  un pitying  ;  and  amaze 
In  all  beholders  deep  they  mark. 
That  thou  betrayest  not  one  spark 
Of  feeling  for  the  ruthless  deed, 
That  did  thy  praiseful  dance  succeed. 
For  on  the  head  they  make  you  look, 
As  if  a  sullen  joy  you  took, 
A  cruel  triumph,  wicked  pride, 
That  for  your  sport  a  saint  had  died. 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  A  PICTURE  OF  TWO  FEMALES  BY 
LEONARDO  DA  VINCI. 

The  lady  Blanch,  regardless  of  all  her  lovers'  fears, 
To  the  Urs'line  convent  hastens,  and  long  the  Abbess 

hears. 
"  0  Blanch,  my  child,  repent  ye  of  the  courtly  life  ye 

lead." 
Blanch  look'd  on  a  rose-bud,  and  little  seem'd  to  heed. 
She  look'd  on  the  rose-bud,  she  look'd  round,  and 

thought 
On  all  her  heart  had  whisper'd  and  all  the  Nun  had 

taught. 
I  am  -worshipp'd  by  lovers,  and  brightly  shines  my 

fame. 
All  Christendom  resoundeth  the  noble  Blanch's  name. 
Nor  shall  I  quickly  wither  like  the  rose-bud  from  the 

tree. 
My  queen-like  graces  shining  when  my  beauty's  gone 

from  me. 
Bat  when  the  sculptured  marble  is  raised  o'er  my  head , 
And  the  matchless  Blanch  lies  lifeless  among  the 

noble  dead, 
This  saintly  lady  Abbess  hath  made  me  justly  fear, 
It  would  nothing  well  avail  me  that  1  were  wor- 
shipp'd here." 


LINES 


ON    THE    SAME    PICTURE    BEING    REMOVED,    TO    MAKE 
PLACE  FOR  A  PORTRAIT  OF  A  LADY  BY  TITIAN. 

W^HO  art  thou,  fair  one,  who  usurp'st  the  place 
Of  Blanch  the  lady  of  the  matchless  grace  ? 


Come,  fair  and  pretty,  tell  to  me. 

Who.  in  thy  life-lime,  thou  might'st  be. 

Thou  pretty  art  and  fair. 

But  with  the  lady  Blanch  thou  never  must  compare 

No  need  for  Blanch  her  history  to  tell  ; 

Whoever  saw  her  face,  they  there  did  read  it  well. 

But  when  I  look  on  thee,  I  only  know 

There  lived  a  pretty  maid  some  hundred  years  ago. 

LINES 

ON  THE  CELEBRATED  PICTURE  BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI, 
CALLED  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  ROCKS. 

While  young  John  runs  to  greet 

The  greater  Infant's  feet, 

The  Mother,  standing  by,  with  trembling  passion 

Of  devout  admiration, 

Beholds  the  engaging  mystic  play,  and  pretty  adoration; 

Nor  knows  as  yet  the  full  event 

Of  those  so  low  beginnings. 

From  whence  we  date  our  winnings. 

But  wonders  at  the  intent 

Of  those  new  rites,  and  what  that  strange  child-wor- 
ship meant. 

But  at  her  side 

An  angel  doth  abide. 

With  such  a  perfect  joy 

As  no  dim  doubts  alloy, 

An  intuition, 

A  glory,  an  amenity. 

Passing  the  dark  condition 

Of  blind  humanity. 

As  if  he  surely  knew 

All  the  blest  wonders  should  ensue, 

Or,  he  had  lately  left  the  upper  sphere, 

And  had  read  all  the  sov'reign  schemes  and  divine 
riddles  there. 


ON  THE  SAME. 

Maternal  lady  with  the  virgin  grace, 

Heaven-born  thy  Jesus  seemeth  sure, 

And  thou  a  virgin  pure. 

Lady  most  perfect,  when  thy  sinless  face 

Men  look  upon,  they  wish  to  be 

A  Catholic,  Madonna  fair,  to  worship  thee. 

CHILDHOOD. 
In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 
Upon  the  days  gone  by  ;  to  act  in  thought 
Past  seasons  o'er,  and  be  again  a  child  ; 
To  sit  in  fancy  on  the  turf-clad  slope, 
Down  which  the  child  would  roll ;  to  pluck  gay  flowew 
Make  posies  in  the  sun,  which  the  child's  hand 
(Childhood  offended  soon,  soon  reconcded/ 
Would  throw  away,  and  straight  take  up  again, 
Then  fling  them  to  the  winds,  and  o'er  the  lawn 
Bound  with  so  playful  and  so  light  a  foot, 
That  the  press'd  daisy  scarce  declined  her  head. 


THE  GRANT)AME. 
On  the  green  hill  top. 
Hard  by  the  house  of  praver,  a  modest  roof, 

410 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


25 


And  not  distinguish'd  from  its  neighbor-barn, 

Save  by  a  slender-tapering  length  of  spire, 

The  Grandame  sleeps.     A  plain  stone  barely  tells 

The  name  and  date  to  the  chance  passenger. 

For  lowly  born  was  she,  and  long  h^  eat, 

Well-earn'd,  the  bread  of  service :— -hers  was  else 

A  mounting  spirit,  one  that  entertain'd 

Scorn  of  base  action,  deed  dishonorable, 

Or  aught  unseemly.     I  remember  well 

Her  reverend  image :  I  remember,  too. 

With  what  a  zeal  she  served  her  master's  house ; 

And  how  the  prattling  tongue  of  garrulous  age 

Delighted  to  recount  the  oft-told  tale 

Or  anecdote  domestic.     Wise  she  was, 

And  wondrous  skill'd  in  genealogies. 

And  could  in  apt  and  voluble  terms  discourse 

Of  births,  of  titles,  and  alliances  ; 

Of  marriages,  and  intermarriages  ; 

Relationship  remote,  or  near  of  kin  ; 

Of  friends  oflfended,  family  disgraced — 

IMaiden  high-born,  but  wayward,  disobeying 

Parental  strict  injunction,  and  regardless 

Of  unmix'd  blood,  and  ancestry  remote, 

Stooping  to  wed  with  one  of  low  degree. 

Bu  these  are  not  tliy  praises;  and  I  wrong 

Tiiy  honor'd  memory',  recording  chiefly 

Things  light  or  trivial.     Better  'twere  to  tell, 

How  with  a  nobler  zeal,  and  warmer  love, 

Siie  served  her  heavenly  Master.     I  have  seen 

That  reverend  form  bent  down  with  age  and  pain, 

And  rankling  malady.     Yet  not  for  this 

Ceased  she  to  praise  her  Maker,  or  withdrew 

Her  trust  in  Him,  her  faith,  and  humble  hope — 

So  meekly  had  she  learn'd  to  bear  her  cross — 

For  she  had  studied  patience  in  the  school 

Of  Christ,  much  comfort  she  had  thence  derived, 

And  was  a  follower  of  the  Nazarexe. 


THE  SABBATH  BELLS. 

The  cheerful  sabbath  bells,  wherever  heard, 

Strike  pleasant  on  the  sense,  most  like  the  voice 

Of  one  who  from  the  far-off  hills  proclaims 

Tidings  of  good  to  Zion :  chiefly  when 

Their  piercing  tones  fall  sudden  on  the  ear 

Of  the  contemplant,  solitary  man, 

Whom  thoughts  abstruse  or  high  have  chanced  to  lure 

Forth  from  the  walks  of  men,  revolving  oft. 

And  oft  again,  hard  matter,  which  eludes 

And  baffles  his  pursuit — thought-sick  and  tired 

Of  controversy,  where  no  end  appears, 

No  clue  to  his  research,  the  lonely  man 

Half  wishes  for  society  again. 

Him,  thus  engaged,  the  sabbath  bells  salute 

Sudden !  his  heart  awakes,  his  ears  drink  in 

The  cheering  music  :  his  relenting  soul 

Yearns  after  all  the  joys  of  social  life, 

And  softens  with  the  love  of  human-kind. 


FANCY  EMPLOYED  ON    DIVINE  SUBJECTS. 

The  truant  Fancy  was  a  wanderer  ever, 

A  lone  enthusiast  maid.     She  loves  to  walk 

In  the  bright  visions  of  empyreal  light. 

By  the  green  pastures,  and  the  fragrant  meads. 


Where  the  perpetual  flowers  of  Eden  blow ; 
By  crystal  streams,  and  by  the  living  waters. 
Along  whose  margin  grows  the  wondrous  tree 
Whose  leaves  shall  heal  the  nations ;  underneath 
Whose  holy  shade  a  refuge  shall  be  found 
From  pain  and  want,  and  all  the  ills  that  wait 
On  mortal  life,  from  sin  ajid  death  for  ever. 


COMPOSED  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

From  broken  visions  of  perturbed  rest 
I  wake,  and  start,  and  fear  to  sleep  again. 
How  total  a  privation  of  all  sounds, 
Sights,  and  familiar  objects,  man,  bird,  beast. 
Herb,  tree,  or  flower,  and  prodigal  light  of  heaven ! 
'Twere  some  rehef  to  catch  the  drowsy  cry 
Of  the  mechanic  watchman,  or  the  noise 
Of  revel,  reeling  home  from  midnight  cups. 
Those  are  the  moanings  of  the  dying  man. 
Who  lies  in  the  upper  chamber ;  restless  moans, 
And  interrupted  only  by  a  cough 
Consumptive,  torturing  the  wasted  lungs. 
So  in  the  bitterness  of  death  he  lies. 
And  waits  in  anguish  for  the  morning's  light 
What  can  that  do  for  him,  or  what  restore  ? 
Short  taste,  faint  sense,  affecting  notices, 
And  little  images  of  pleasures  past. 
Of  health,  and  active  life — health  not  yet  slain. 
Nor  the  other  grace  of  life,  a  good  name,  sold 
For  sin's  black  wages.     On  his  tedious  bed 
He  writhes,  and  turns  him  from  the  accusing  light. 
And  finds  no  comfort  in  the  sun,  but  says 
"  When  night  comes,  I  shall  get  a  little  rest." 
Some  few  groans  more,  death  comes,  and  there  an  end. 
'T  is  darkness  and  conjecture,  all  beyond  ; 
Weak  Nature  fears,  though  Charity  must  hope, 
And  Fancy,  most  licentious  on  such  themes 
Where  decent  reverence  well  had  kept  her  mute. 
Hath  o'er-stock'd  hell  \^^th  devils,  and  brought  down, 
By  her  enormous  fablings  and  mad  lies. 
Discredit  on  the  gospel's  serious  truths 
And  salutarj'^  fears.     The  man  of  parts, 
Poet,  or  prose  declaimer,  on  his  couch 
Lolling,  like  one  indiffeient,  fabricates 
A  heaven  of  gold,  where  he,  and  such  as  he, 
Their  heads  encompassed  with  crowns,  their  heels 
With  fine  wings  garlanded,  shall  tread  the  stars 
Beneath  their  feet,  heaven's  pavement,  far  removed 
From  damned  spirits,  and  the  torturing  cries 
Of  men,  his  brethren,  fa.shion'd  of  the  earth. 
As  he  was,  nourish'd  with  the  self-same  bread. 
Belike  his  kindred  or  companions  once — 
Through  everlasting  ages  now  divorced. 
In  chains  and  savage  torments  to  repent 
Short  years  of  folly  on  earth.  Their  groans  unheard 
In  heav'n,  the  saint  nor  pity  feels,  nor  care, 
For  those  thus  sentenced — pity  might  disturb 
The  delicate  sense  and  most  divine  repose 
Of  spirits  angelical.     Blessed  be  God, 
The  measure  of  his  judgments  is  not  fix'd 
By  man's  erroneous  standard.     He  discerns 
No  such  inordinate  difference  and  vast 
Betwixt  the  sinner  and  the  saint,  to  doom 
Such  disproportion'd  fates.     Compared  with  him, 
No  man  on  earth  is  holy  call'd  :  they  best 

411 


26 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Stand  in  his  sight  approved,  who  at  his  feet 
Their  httle  crowns  of  virtue  cast,  and  yield 
To  him  of  his  own  worlis  the  praise,  his  due. 


LIVING  WITHOUT  GOD  IN  THE  WORLD. 

Mystery  of  God!  thou  bravo  and  beauteous  world 

Made  fair  with  light  and  shade  and  stars  and  flowers 

Made  fearfid  and  august  with  woods  and  rocks, 

Jagg'd  precipice,  black  mountain,  sea  in  storms,' 

Sun,  over  all,  that  no  co-rival  owns. 

But  through  heaven's  pavement  rides,  as  in  despite 

Or  mockery  of  the  littleness  of  man ! 

I  see  a  mighty  arm,  by  man  unseen, 

Resistless,  not  to  be  controll'd,  that  guides, 

In  solitude  of  unshared  energies. 

All  these  thy  ceaseless  miracles,  O  world  .' 

Arm  of  the  world,  I  view  thee,  and  I  muse 

On  man,  who,  trusting  in  his  mortal  strength. 

Leans  on  a  shadowy  stafi;  a  staff  of  dreams.' 

We  consecrate  our  total  hopes  and  fears 

To  idols,  flesh  and  blood,  our  love  (heaven'.s  due), 

Our  praise  and  admiration ;  praise  bestowed 

By  man  on  man,  and  acts  of  worship  done 

To  a  kindred  nature,  certes  do  reflect 

Some  portion  of  the  glory  and  rays  oblique 

Upon  the  politic  worshipper.     So  man 

Extracts  a  pride  from  his  humility. 

Some  braver  spirits  of  the  modern  stamp 

Affect  a  Godhead  nearer :  These  talk  loud 

Of  mind,  and  independent  intellect, 

Of  energies  omnipotent  in  man. 

And  man  of  his  own  fate  artificer; 

Yea,  of  his  own  life  lord,  and  of  the  days 

Of  his  abode  on  earth,  when  time  shall  be 

That  life  immortal  shall  become  an  art. 

Of  death,  by  chymic  practices  deceived, 

Forego  the  scent,  which  for  six  thousand  years 

Like  a  good  hound  he  has  follow'd  ;  or  at  length, 

More  manners  learning,  and  a  decent  sense 

And  reverence  of  a  philosophic  world. 

Relent,  and  leave  to  prey  on  carcasses. 

But  these  are  fancies  of  a  few :  the  rest, 

Atheists,  or  Deists  only  in  the  name, 

By  word  or  deed  deny  a  God.     They  eat 

Their  daily  bread,  and  draw  the  breath  of  heaven 

Without  or  thought  or  thanks  ;  heaven's  roof  to  them 

Is  but  a  painted  ceiling  hung  with  lamps, 

No  more,  that  lights  them  to  their  purposes. 

They  wander  "  loose  about ;"  ihey  nothing  see, 

Themselves  except,  and  creatures 'like  themselves, 

Short-Uved,  short-sighted,  impotent  to  save. 

So  on  their  dissolute  spirits,  soon  or  late, 

Destruction  cometh  "  like  an  armed  man," 

Or  like  a  dream  of  murder  in  the  night, 

Withering  their  mortal  faculties,  and  breaking 

The  bones  of  all  their  pride. 


ON  AN  INFANT  DYING  AS  SOON  AS  BORN. 

I  SAW  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 
A  curious  piece  of  Nature's  work, 
A  floweret  crushed  in  the  bud, 
A  nameless  maid,  in  babyhood. 


Was  in  hor  cradle-coffm  lying  ; 

Extinct,  vvuh  scarce  a  shov.'  of  dying; 

So  soon  to  exchange  th'  impriscming  womb 

For  darker  prison  of  the  to.mb ! 

She  did  bj|t  ope  an  eye,  and  put 

A  clear  beam  forth— then  straight  up  shut 

For  the  long  dark :  ne'er  more  to  see 

Through  glasses  of  mortality 

Riddle  of  Destiny !  who  can  show 
What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 
What  thy  errand  here  below  ? 
Shall  we  say  that  Nature,  blind, 
Check'd  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind, 
Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 
A  flnish'd  pattern  without  fault  ? 

Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire  ? 

Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire, 
(With  her  tedious  w^orkings  sicken'd) 
That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken'd? 
Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 
Life  of  health,  and  days  mature; 
Womanhood  in  miniature ! 
Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 
(Themselves  now  but  cold  imager^-) 

The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by ; 

Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry 
That,  babe  or  mother,  one  must  die  ; 
So,  in  mercy,  left  the  stock  • 

And  cut  the  branch :  to  save  the  shock 
Of  young  years  widow'd :  and  the  pain 
When  simple  state  comes  back  again 
To  the  lorn  man,  who,  'reft  of  wife, 
Thencefoj-vvard  drags  a  maimed  life'? 
The  economy  of  Ileav'n  is  dark ; 
And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark, 
Why  Heaven's  buds,  like  this,  should  fall 
More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral, 

That  has  Ids  day;  while  shrivell'd  crones 

Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones ; 

And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 

In  sinners  of  a  hundred  years. 

Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 

Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss. 

Rites,  which  custom  does  impose  ; 

Silver  bells  and  baby  clothes  ; 

Corals  redder  than  those  lips 

Which  pale  Death  did  late  eclipse ; 

Music  framed  for  infant's  glee. 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee  ; 

Though  thou  want'st  not,  thou  shalt  have  them 

(Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them). 

Let  not  one  be  missing  :  Nurse, 

See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 

Of  Infant,  slain  by  doom  perverse 

Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 

Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave ; 

And  we,  churls!  to  thee  deny 

Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie, — 

A  more  harmless  vanity  ? 


VERSES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

Fresh  clad  from  Heaven,  in  robes  of  white, 
A  young  probationer  of  light. 
Thou  wert,  my  soul,  an  Album  bright, 
412 


mSCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


27 


A  spotless  leaf;  but  thought,  and  care, 
And  friends,  and  foes,  in  foul  or  fair. 
Have  "written  strange  defeature"  there. 

And  Time,  with  heaviest  hand  of  all, 
Like  that  fierce  WTiting  on  the  wall, 
Hath  stamp'd  sad  dates,  he  can't  recall. 

And  Error,  gilding  worst  designs, 

Like  speckled  snake  that  strays  and  shines — 

Betrays  his  path  by  crooked  lines. 

And  Vice  hath  left  his  ugly  blot — 
And  Good  Resolves,  a  moment  hot, 
Fairly  began — but  finish'd  not. 

And  fruitless  late  Remorse  doth  trace, 
Like  Hebrew  lore,  a  backward  pace — 
Her  irrecoverable  race. 

Disjointed  members — sense  unknit — 
Huge  reams  of  folly — shreds  of  w-it — 
Compose  the  mingled  mass  of  it. 

My  scalded  eyes  no  longer  brook 

Upon  this  ink-blurr'd  thing  to  look. 

Go — shut  the  leaves — and  clasp  the  book ! 


QUATRAINS. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  EVERY-DAY  BOOK. 

I  LIKE  you,  and  your  book,  ingenious  Hone ! 

In  whose  capacious  all-embracing  leaves 

The  very  marrow  of  tradition's  shown ; 

And  all  that  history — much  that  fiction — weaves. 

By  every  sort  of  taste  your  work  is  graced : 
;  Vast  stores  of  modern  anecdote  we  find, 
With  good  old  story  quaintly  interlaced — 
The  theme  as  various  as  the  readers'  mind. 

Rome's  lie-fraught  legends  you  so  truly  paint — 
Yet  kindly — that  the  half-turn'd  Catholic 

.  Scarcely  forbears  to  smile  at  his  own  saint, 

]  And  cannot  curse  the  candid  Heretic. 

i  Rags,  relics,  witches,  ghosts,  fiends,  crowd  your  page; 

',  Our  fathers'  mummeries  we  well  pleased  behold  ; 
And,  proudly  conscious  of  a  purer  age, 
Forgive  some  fopperies  in  the  times  of  old. 

i  Verse-honoring  Phoebus,  Father  of  bright  Days, 
Must  needs  bestow  on  you  both  good  and  many, 
Who,  building  trophies  to  his  children's  praise, 
Run  their  rich  Zodiac  through,  not  missing  any. 

Dan  Phoebus  loves  your  book — trust  me,  friend  Hone — 
The  title  only  errs,  he  bids  me  say : 
For  while  such  art — wit — reading — there  are  shown. 
He  swears  't  is  not  a  work  of  every  day. 


TO  MARTIN  CHARLES  BURNEY,  ESQ. 

ON   DEDICATING  TO  HIM  THE  PROSE  WORKS    OF    THE 
AUTHOR. 

Forgive  me,  Bumey,  if  to  thee  these  late 
And  hasty  products  of  a  critic  pen. 
Thyself  no  common  judge  of  books  and  men. 
In  feeling  of  thy  worth  I  dedicate. 

2K2 


My  verse  was  ofTer'd  to  an  older  friend ; 
The  humbler  prose  has  fallen  to  thy  share  : 
Nor  could  I  miss  the  occasion  to  declare, 
W^hat  spoken  in  thy  presence  must  offend — 
That,  set  aside  some  few  caprices  wild. 
Those  humorous  clouds  that  flit  o'er  brightest  dap 
In  all  my  threadings  of  this  worldly  maze 
(And  I  have  watch'd  thee  almost  from  a  child), 
Free  from  self-seeking,  envy,  low  design, 
I  have  not  found  a  whiter  soul  than  thine. 


ANGEL  HELP.' 

This  rare  tablet  doth  include 

Poverty  with  sanclitude. 

Past  midnight  this  poor  moid  hath  spun. 

And  yet  the  work  not  half  is  done. 

Which  must  supply  from  earnings  scant 

A  feeble  bed-rid  parent's  want. 

Her  sleep-charged  eyes  exemption  ask. 

And  holy  hands  take  up  the  task ; 

Unseen  the  rock  and  spindle  ply, 

And  do  her  earthly  drudgery. 

Sleep,  saintly  poor  one  I  sleep,  sleep  on, 
And,  waking,  find  thy  labors  done. 

Perchance  she  knows  it  by  her  dreams ; 
Her  eye  hath  caught  the  golden  gleams 
(Angelic  presence  testifying), 
That  round  her  everywhere  are  flving ; 
Ostents  from  which  she  may  presume 
That  much  of  Heaven  is  in  the  room. 
Skirting  her  own  bright  hair  they  run. 
And  to  the  sunny  add  more  sun : 
Now  on  that  aged  face  <hey  fix. 
Streaming  from  the  crucifix  ; 
The  flesh-clogg'd  spirit  disabusing, 
Death-disarming  sleeps  infusing, 
Prelibations,  foretastes  high. 
And  equal  thoughts  to  live  or  die- 
Gardener  bright  from  Eden's  bower! 
Tend  with  care  that  lily  flower ; 
To  its  leaves  and  root  infuse 
Heaven's  sunshine,  heaven's  dews ; 
'T  is  a  type  and  't  is  a  pledge 
Of  a  crowning  privilege  : 
Careful  as  that  lily  flower 
This  maid  must  keep  her  precious  dower ; 
Live  a  sainted  maid,  or  die 
Martyr  to  virginity. 
Virtuous  poor  ones !  sleep,  sleep  on. 
And,  waking,  find  your  labors  done. 


SONNET. 
TO  MISS  KELLY. 

You  are  not,  Kelly,  of  the  common  strain, 
That  stoop  their  pride  and  female  honor  down 
To  please  that  many-headed  beast  the  town, 
And  vend  their  lavish  smiles  and  tricks  for  gain 


1  Suereested  by  a  picture  in  the  possession  of  Charles  A.iers, 
Esq.,  Euston  Squ.ire,  in  which  is  reprcscntfd  the  Ie::end  of  Ji 
poor  female  Saint,  who,  having  spun  pan  midnight  to  maintain 
a  bed-rid.len  mother,  has  fallen  asleep  from  fatigue,  and  angels 
are  finishing  her  work.  In  another  part  of  the  chamber  an 
angel  is  tending  a  lily,  the  emblem  of  her  purity. 

413 


28 


LAMB'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  fortune  thrown  amid  the  actors'  train, 
You  keep  your  native  dignity  of  thought; 
The  plaudits  that  attend  you  come  unsought, 
As  tributes  due  unto  your  natural  vein. 
Your  tears  have  passion  in  them,  and  a  grace 
Of  genuine  freshness,  which  our  hearts  avow  ; 
Your  smiles  are  winds  whose  ways  we  cannot  trace, 
That  vanish  and  return  we  know  not  how — 
And  please  the  better  from  a  pensive  face, 
A  thoughtful  eye,  and  a  reflecting  brow. 


SONNET. 

ON  THE  SIGHT  OF  SWANS  IN  KENSINGTON  GARDEN. 

Queen-bird!  that  sittest  on  thy  shining  nest, 
And  thy  young  cygnets  without  sorrow  hatchest, 
And  thou,  thou  other  royal  bird,  that  watchest 
Lest  the  white  mother  wandering  feet  molest : 
Shrined  are  your  oflfspring  in  a  crystal  cradle. 
Brighter  than  Helen's,  ere  she  yet  had  burst 
Her  shelly  prison.    They  shall  be  born  at  first 
Strong,  active,  graceful,  perfect,  swan-like,  able 
To  tread  the  land  or  waters  with  security. 
Unlike  poor  human  births,  conceived  in  sin, 
fn  grief  brought  forth,  both  outwardly  and  in. 
Confessing  weakness,  error,  and  impurity. 
Did  heavenly  creatures  own  succession's  line, 
The  births  of  heaven  like  to  yours  would  shine. 


SONNET. 


Was  it  some  sweet  device  of  Fairy 

That  mock'd  my  steps  with  many  a  lonely  glade. 

And  fancied  wanderings  with  a  fair-hair'd  maid  ? 

Have  these  things  been  ?  or  what  rare  witchery, 

[mpregning  with  delights  the  charmed  air, 

Enlighted  up  the  semblance  of  a  smile 

[n  those  fine  eyes  ?    Methought  they  spake  the  while 

Soft  soothing  things,  which  might  enforce  Despair 

To  drop  ihe  murdering  knife,  and  let  go  by 

His  foul  resolve.     And  does  the  lonely  glade 

Still  court  the  footsteps  of  the  fair-hair'd  maid  ? 

Still  in  her  locks  the  gales  of  summer  sigh  ? 

While  I  forlorn  do  wander  reckless  where. 

And  'raid  my  wanderings  meet  no  Anna  there. 


SONNET. 


Methinks  how  dainty  sweet  it  were,  reclmed 

Beneath  the  vast  out-stretching  branches  high 

Of  some  old  wood,  in  careless  sort  to  lie. 

Nor  of  the  busier  scenes  we  left  behind 

Aught  envying.     And,  O  Anna  I  mild-eyed  maid  : 

Beloved !  I  were  well  content  to  play 

With  thy  free  tresses  all  a  summer's  day, 

liosing  the  time  beneath  the  green-wood  shade. 

Or  we  might  sit  and  tell  some  tender  tale 

Of  faithful  vows  repaid  by  cruel  scorn, 

A  tale  of  true-love,  or  of  friend  forgot  ; 

And  I  would  teach  thee,  lady,  how  to  rail 

fn  gentle  sort,  on  those  who  practise  not 

Or  love  or  pity,  though  of  W'Oman  bom. 


SONNET. 

When  last  I  roved  these  winding  wood-walks  green 
Green  winding  walks,  and  shady  pathways  sweet, 
Oft-times  would  Anna  seek  the  silent  scene. 
Shrouding  her  beauties  in  the  lone  retreat. 
No  more  I  hear  her  footsteps  in  the  shade : 
Her  image  only  in  these  pleasant  ways 
Meets  me  self-wandering,  where  in  happier  days 
I  held  free  converse  with  the  fair-hair'd  maid. 
I  pass'd  the  little  cottage  which  she  loved, 
The  cottage  which  did  once  my  all  contain  ; 
It  spake  of  days  which  ne'er  must  come  again. 
Spake  to  my  heart,  and  much  my  heart  was  moved. 
"  Now  fair  befall  thee,  gentle  maid  !"  said  I, 
And  from  the  cottage  turn'd  me  with  a  sigh. 


SONNET. 


A  timid  grace  sits  trembling  in  her  eye. 

As  loth  to  meet  the  rudeness  of  men's  sight. 

Yet  shedding  a  delicious  lunar  light. 

That  steeps  in  kind  oblivious  ecstacy 

The  care-crazed  mind,  like  some  still  melody 

Speaking  most  plain  the  thoughts  which  do 

Her  gejitle  sprite  :  peace,  and  meek  quietness. 

And  innocent  loves,  and  maiden  purity : 

A  look  whereof  might  heal  the  cruel  smart 

Of  changed  friends,  or  fortune's  wrongs  unkind. 

Might  to  sweet  deeds  of  mercy  move  the  heart 

Of  him  who  hates  his  brethren  of  mankind. 

Turn'd  are  those  lights  from  me,  who  fondly  yet 

Past  joys,  vain  loves,  and  buried  hopes  regret. 


SONNET. 

If  from  my  lips  some  angry  accents  fell, 

Peevish  complaint,  or  harsh  reproof  unkind, 

'T  was  but  the  error  of  a  sickly  mind 

And  troubled  thoughts,  clouding  the  purer  well, 

And  waters  clear,  of  Reason ;  and  for  me 

Let  this  my  verse  the  poor  atonement  be — 

My  verse,  which  thou  to  praise  wert  e'er  inclined 

Too  highly,  and  with  a  partial  eye  to  see 

No  blemish.    Thou  to  me  didst  ever  show 

Kindest  affection ;  and  would  oft-times  lend 

An  ear  to  the  desponding  love-sick  lay. 

Weeping  my  sorrows  with  me,  who  repay 

But  ill  the  mighty  debt  of  love  I  owe, 

Mary,  to  thee,  my  sister  and  my  friend. 


SONNET. 

THE  FAMILY  NAME. 

What  reason  first  imposed  thee,  gentle  name, 
Name  that  my  father  bore,  and  his  sire's  sire, 
Without  reproach  ?  we  trace  our  stream  no  higher , 
And  I,  a  childless  man,  may  end  the  same. 
Perchance  some  shepherd  on  Lincolnian  plains, 
In  manners  guileless  as  his  own  sweet  flocks, 
Received  thee  first  amid  the  merry  mocks 
And  arch  allusions  of  his  fellow  swains. 

414 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


29 


Perchance  from  Salem's  holier  fields  return'd, 
With  glory  gotten  on  the  heads  abhorr'd 
Of  faithless  Saracens,  some  martial  lord 
Took  HIS  meek  title,  in  whose  zeal  he  burn'd. 
Whate'er  the  fount  whence  thy  beginnings  came 
No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name. 


SONNET. 

TO  JOHN  LAMB,  ESQ-  OF  THE  SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE. 

John,  you  were  figuring  in  the  gay  career 
Of  blooming  manhood  with  a  young  man's  joy, 
When  I  was  yet  a  little  peevish  boy — 
Though  time  has  made  the  difference  disappear 
Betwixt  our  ages,  which  then  seem'd  so  great, — 
And  still  by  rightful  custom  you  retain 
Much  of  the  old  authoritative  strain, 
And  keep  the  elder  brother  up  in  state- 
O !  you  do  well  in  this.    'T  is  man's  worst  deed 
To  let  the  "  tnings  that  have  been"  run  to  waste, 
And  in  the  unmeaning  present  sink  the  past : 
In  whose  dim  glass  even  now  I  faintly  read 
Old  buried  forms,  and  faces  long  ago. 
Which  you,  and  I,  and  one  more,  only  know. 


SONNET. 

[0!  I  could  laugh  to  hear  the  midnight  wind, 
[That,  rushing  on  its  way  with  careless  sweep, 
fl  Scatters  the  ocean  waves.    And  I  could  weep 
;  Like  to  a  child.    For  now  to  my  raised  mind 
On  wings  of  winds  comes  wild-eyed  Phantasy, 
And  her  rude  visions  give  severe  delight. 
O  winged  bark !  how  swift  along  the  night 
Pass'd  thy  proud  keel .'  nor  shall  I  let  go  by 
Lio^hlly  of  that  drear  hour  the  memory. 
When  wet  and  chilly  on  thy  deck  I  stood, 
Unbonneted,  and  gazed  upon  the  flood, 
Even  till  it  seem'd  a  pleasant  thing  to  die, — 
To  be  resolved  into  th'  elemental  wave. 
Or  take  my  portion  with  the  winds  that  rave. 


SONNET. 


We  were  two  pretty  babes,  the  youngest  she, 
The  youngest,  and  the  loveliest  far,  I  ween, 
And  Innocence  her  name.   The  time  has  been. 
We  two  did  love  each  other's  company; 
Time  was,  we  two  had  wept  to  have  been  apart. 
But  when,  by  show  of  seeming  good  beguiled, 
I  left  the  garb  and  manners  of  a  child, 
And  my  first  love,  for  man's  society. 
Defiling  with  the  world  my  virgin  heart — 
My  loved  companion  dropp'd  a  tear,  and  fled, 
And  hid  in  deepest  shades  her  awful  head 


Beloved  !  who  shall  tell  me  where  thou  art — 

In  what  delicious  Eden  to  be  found — 

That  I  may  seek  thee  the  wide  world  around? 


SONNET. 


They  talk  of  Time,  and  of  Time's  galling  j'oke. 
That  like  a  mill-stone  on  man's  mind  dulh  press. 
Which  only  works  and  business  can  redress : 
Of  divine  Leisure  such  foul  lies  are  spoke. 
Wounding  her  fair  gifts  with  calumnious  stroke 
But  might  I,  fed  with  silent  Meditation, 
Assoiled  live  from  that  fiend  Occupation — 
Improhus  labor,  which  my  spirits  hath  broke — 
I  'd  drink  of  time's  rich  cup  and  never  surfeit. 
Fling  in  more  days  than  went  to  make  the  gem 
That  crown'd  the  white  top  of  Methusalem  ; 
Yea,  on  my  weak  neck  take,  and  never  forfeit, 
Like  Atlas  bearing  up  the  dainty  sky, 
The  heaven-sweet  burthen  of  Eternity. 


THE  CHRISTENING. 

Array'd — a  half  angelic  sight — 
In  vests  of  pure  Baptismal  white — 
The  mother  to  the  Font  doth  bring 
The  little  helpless,  nameless  thing. 
With  hushes  soft  and  mild  caressing. 
At  once  to  get — a  name  and  blessing. — 
Close  by  the  Babe  the  Priest  doth  stand — 
The  sacred  water  at  his  hand, 
Which  must  assoil  the  soul  within 
From  every  stain  of  Adam's  sin. — 
The  Infant  eyes  the  mystic  scenes, 
Nor  knows  what  all  this  wonder  means ; 
And  now  he  smiles,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I  am  a  Christian  made  this  day ; " 
Now,  frighted,  clings  to  Nurse's  hold. 
Shrinking  from  the  water  cold, 
Whose  virtues,  rightly  understood. 
Are,  as  Bethesda's  waters,  good. — 
Strange  words — the  World,  the  Flesh,  the  Devil- 
Poor  babe,  what  can  it  know  of  evil  ? 
But  we  must  silently  adore 
Mysterious  truths,  and  not  explore. 
Enough  for  him,  in  after-limes. 
When  he  shall  read  these  artless  rhymes, 
If,  looking  back  upon  this  day. 
With  easy  conscience  he  can  say, 
"  I  have  in  part  redeem'd  the  pledge 
Of  my  baptismal  privilege  ; 
And  more  and  more  will  strive  to  flee 
All  that  my  sponsers  kind  renounced  for  me.* 

4J5 


THE  END  OF  LAMB'S  WORKS. 


THE 


^©^mp^m  w%mm 


OF 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 


^ 


©ontente. 


Pag( 
ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  H.  E.  WHITE, 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY v 

Poems  inserted  in  the  life. 

On  being  confined  to  School  one  pleasant 
j  Morning  in  Spring ;  written  at  the  Age 

■,         of  Thirteen vi 

I       Extract  from  An  address  to  Contemplation  ; 

written  at  Fourteen ib. 

To  the  Rosemary x 

To  the  Morning ib. 

My  own  Character xii 

Ode  on  Disappointment xv 

Lines  written  in  Wilford  Church- Yard,  on 

Recovery  from  Sickness ib. 

.To  the  Wind,  at  Midnight xxii 

(Lines,  by  Professor  Smyth,  of  Cambridge, 
on  a  Monument  erected  by  Francis  Boott, 
Esq.,  an  American  Gentleman,  in  All- 
Saints'  Church,  Cambridge,  to  the  Memory 

of  Henry  Kirke  White xxiii 

Lines,  and  Note,  by  Lord  Byron) ib. 

^•OEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  THE  PUBLICA- 
TION OF  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


Childhood,  Part  I 

II 

The  Fair  Maid  of  Clifton— A  New  Ballad 

in  the  old  style 

Song  "The  Robin  Red-Breast" 

Winter  Song 

Song  "  Sweet  Jessy,  I  fain  would  caress"  . 
"  Oh,  that  I  were  the  fragrant  Flower 

that  kisses" 

Fragment  of  an  Eccentric  Drama 

To  a  friend 

On  reading  the  Poems  of  Warton 

To  the  Muse 

To  Love 

The  Wandering  Boy 

Fragment,  "The  Western  Gale" 

Ode,  written  on  Whit-Monday 

Canzonet 

Commencement  of  a  Poem  on  Despair .  .  . 

On  Rural  Solitude 

"  In  hollow  Music,  sighing  through  the  glade" 
"  Thou  Mongrel,  who  dost  show  thy  teeth, 

and  yelp" 

Ode  to  the  Morning  Star 

The  Hermit  of  the  Pacific 

To  the  Wind,  a  Fragment  (for  conclusion  of 

this  piece,  see  Life,  p.  xxii) 

The  Eve  of  death 

Thanatos 

Athanatos 

On  Music 

Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon 

Song,  "  Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes  "    .  . 

The  Shipwreck'd  Solitary's  Song 

Elegy,  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill 


Clifton  Grove jq 

Gondoline,  a  Ballad 21 

Lines  written  on  a  Survey  of  the  Heavens, 
in  the  Morning  before  Day-break.  .  .  .  .'  23 

Lines,  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  Lover  at 
the  Grave  of  his  Mistress 24 

My  Study jj. 

To  an  early  Primrose 25 

Sonne^.  To  the  Trent a, 

"Give  me  a  Cottage  on  some  Cam- 
brian wild" |5, 

Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by 

a  Female  Lunatic  to  a  Lady 26 

In  the  Character  of  Dermody  .  .  .   ib. 

The  Winter  Traveller ib. 

By  Capel  Loffl,  Esq ib. 

Recantatcry  in  Reply ib. 

On  hearing  an  .^olian  Harp  ....   ib. 

"  What  art  thou,  Mighty  One"  ...  27 

Ballad,  "Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter 
winds" ib. 

The  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to  her 
Child ib. 

POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE  ; 

Extemporaneous  Verses ib. 

To  Poesy ;  addressed  to  Capel  Lofft,  Esq.  .  28 

Ode  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.  R.  A ib. 

to  tlie  Earl  of  Carlisle 29 

Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve 30 

To  Contemplation ib. 

To  the  Genius  of  Romance,  a  fragment    .  .  31 

The  Savoyard's  Return '32 

"Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  Be  still".  .   ib.' 

Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death ib. 

Pastoral  Son^,  "Come,  Anna,  come"  ....  33 

Verses,  "  When  Pride  and  Envy  " ib. 

Epigram  on  Robert  Bloorafield ib. 

To  Midnight ib. 

To  Thought ;  written  at  Midnight 34 

Genius {b. 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon 35 

Fragment,  "Loud  rage  the  winds  without"    ib 
"Oh,  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's 

train" ib. 

"  I  have  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart"  36 

"  Once  more  his  beagles  wake  the 

slumb'ring  morn" ib 

"  Drear  winter!  who  dost  knock "   ib 

"  Behold  the  shepherd  boy,  who 

homeward  tends" ib. 

"  Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy 

pomp  arise " 37 

"  With  slow  step,  along  the  desert 

sand  " ^ 

Sonnet.   To  a  friend ib. 

"  Oh !  had  tlie  soul's  deep  silence 

power  to  speak" ib. 

419 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Sonnet.  "The  harp  is  still!  Weak  though 
the  spirit  were" 38 

. "  Or  should  the  day  be  overcast "  .   ib. 

. "  Mild  Vesper,  favorite  of  the  Pa- 

phian  Queen" ib. 

■ "  In  every  clime,  from  Lapland  to 

Japan" ib. 

To  Liberty. ib. 

"  Who  is  it  leads'  the  planets  in  their  dance  "  39 

"How  beautiful  upon  the  element"  ....   ib. 

"Ghosts  of  the  dead,  in  grim  array"  ....   ib. 

On  the  Death  of  the  Duke  d'Enghien ....   ib. 

Sonnet,— To  Capel  Lofft,  Esq 40 

To  the  Moon ib. 

— written  at  the  Grave  of  a  Friend  .   ib. 

— ■ ■ "  Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Sum- 
mer's smile " ib. 

— "  Poor  little  oneT  most  bitterly  did 

pain " ib. 

—  To  December ib. 

■^^ To  Misfortune 41 

■-:-^ "As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a 

heavy  care" ib. 

^-^ -'To  April ib. 

— "  Ye  unseen  spirits" ib. 

To  a  Taper ib. 

To  my  Mother ib. 

"Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon" ib. 

To  Consumption ib. 

"Thy  judgments.  Lord,  are  just".  .  42 

To  a  Friend  in  Distress,  who,  when  Henry 
reasoned  with  him  calmly,  asked.  If  he 
did  not  feel  for  him  ? ib. 

Christmas  Day ib. 

Nelsoni  Mors 43 

Versification  of  the  22d  Fsabn ib. 


Page 
Hymn,  "The  Lord  our  God  is  full  of  might"  43 

"  The  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  all "  44 

"  Through  sorrow's  night,  and  dan- 
ger's path  " ih, 

"  Much  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe,"   a 

Fragment ib. 

■ '-  Christians!  brethren!  ere  we  part," 

a  Fragment {&. 

"Awake,  sweet  harpof  Judah,  wake"    ih. 

for  Family  Worship 45 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem ik 

Hymn,  "  O  Lord  my  God,  in  mercy  turn".  .  ib. 
Melody,  "  Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain"  ib. 
Song,  by  Waller,  uith  an  additional  Stanza   ib. 

"  I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I  'm  sad  " 46 

Solitude ib. 

"  If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove "  .  .  .  .  ib. 
"  Fanny,  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie  "  .  .   ib. 

Fragments. 

L  "  Saw'st  thou  that  Light" 47 

IL  "  The  pious  man,  in  this  bad  world"  .  .   ib. 

III.  "  Lo,  on  the  eastern  summit" ib. 

IV.  "  There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile  "  ib. 
V.  "O  pale  art  thou,  my  lamp" ib. 

VI.  "O  give  me  music" ib. 

Vn.  "Ah!  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view"  ib. 

VIII.  "And  must  thou  go?" ib. 

IX.  "  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequer'd 

past" 

X.  "  When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood 

and  stream" ib. 

XI.  "  Hush'd  is  the  lyre  " ib. 

XII.  "Once  more,  and  yet  once  more"  .  .  .  .  ii 

Time ib. 

The  Christiad 53 

420 


Slccouut  of  tUe  atfe  of  Pjenra  Kirfte  Wixitt. 

BY  ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


Not  alone  by  the  Muses, 
But  by  the  Virtues  loved,  his  soul  in  its  youthful  aspirings 
Sought  the  Holy  Hill,  and  his  thirst  was  for  Siloah's  waters. 
Vision  of  Judgment. 

No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep. 
But  living  statues  there  iire  seen  to  weep. 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb. 
Affliction's  self  deplores  thy  youthful  doom ! 

Byron. 


It  fell  to  my  lot  to  publish,  with  the  assistance 
of  my  friend  Mr.  Cottle,  the  first  collected  edition 
of  the  works  of  Chatterton,  in  whose  history  I  felt 
a  more  than  ordinary  interest,  as  being  a  native  j 
of  the  same  city,  familiar  from  my  childhood  with 
those  great  objects  of  art  and  nature  by  which  he 
had  been  so  deeply  impressed,  and  devoted  from 
my  childhood  with  equal  ardor  to  the  same  pur- 
suits. It  is  now  my  fortune  to  lay  before  the  world 
some  account  of  one  whose  early  death  is  not  less 
to  be  lamented,  as  a  loss  to  English  literature,  and 
whose  virtues  were  as  admirable  as  his  genius. 
In  the  present  instance  there  is  nothing  to  be  re- 
corded, but  what  is  honorable  to  himself  and  to 
the  age  in  which  he  lived ;  little  to  be  regretted, 
but  that  one  so  ripe  for  heaven  should  so  soon 
have  been  removed  from  the  world. 

Henry  Kirke  White,  the  second  son  of  John 
and  Mary  White,  was  born  in  Nottingham,  March 
21st,  1785.  His  father  w^as  a  butcher;  his  mother, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Neville,  is  of  respectable 
Staffordshire  family. 

From  the  years  of  three  till  five,  Henry  learnt  to 
read  at  the  school  of  Mrs.  Garrington;  whose  name, 
unimportant  as  it  may  appear,  is  mentioned  be- 
cause she  had  the  good  sense  to  perceive  his  extra- 
ordinary capacity,  and  spoke  of  what  it  promised 
with  confidence.  She  was  an  excellent  woman,  and 
he  describes  her  with  affection  in  his  poem  upon 
Childhood.  At  a  very  early  age  his  love  of  read- 
ing  was  decidedly  manifested ;  it  was  a  passion  to 
which  everything  else  gave  way.  "  I  could  fancy," 
says  ins  eldest  sister,  "  I  see  him  in  his  little  chair, 
with  a  largo  book  upon  his  knee,  and  my  mo- 
ther calling,  '  Henry,  my  love,  come  to  dinner ;' 
which  \rd.s  repeated  so  often  without  being  re- 
garded, that  she  was  obliged  to  change  the  tone 

2L 


of  her  voice  before  she  could  rouse  him."  When 
he  was  about  seven,  he  Avould  creep  unperceived 
into  the  kitchen,  to  teach  the  servant  to  read  and 
write  ;  and  he  continued  this  for  some  time  before 
it  was  discovered  that  he  had  been  thus  laudably 
employed.  He  wrote  a  tale  of  a  Swiss  emigrant^ 
which  was  probably  his  first  comfxjsition,  and 
gave  it  to  this  servant,  being  ashamed  to  show  it 
to  his  mother.  The  consciousness  of  genius  is 
always  at  first  accompanied  with  this  diffidence , 
it  is  a  sacred,  solitary  feeling.  And  perhaps,  no  for- 
ward child,  however  extraordinary  the  promise  of 
his  childhood,  ever  produced  anything  truly  great. 
When  Henry  was  about  six,  he  was  placed 
imder  the  Rev.  John  Blanchard,  who  kept,  at  that 
time,  the  best  school  in  Nottingham.  Here  he 
learnt  writing,  arithmetic,  and  French.  When  he 
was  about  eleven,  he  one  day  wrote  a  separate 
theme  for  every  boy  in  his  class,  which  consisted 
of  about  twelve  or  fourteen.  The  master  said  he 
had  never  known  them  write  so  well  upon  any 
subject  before,  and  could  not  refrain  from  ex- 
pressing his  astonishment  at  the  excellence  of 
Henry's.  It  was  considered  as  a  great  thing  for 
him  to  be  at  so  good  a  school,  yet  there  were  some 
circumstances  which  rendered  it  less  advantage- 
ous to  him  than  it  might  have  been.  Mrs.  White 
had  not  yet  overcome  her  husband's  intention  of 
breeding  him  up  to  his  own  business  ;  and  by  an 
arrangement  which  took  up  too  much  of  his  time, 
and  would  have  crushed  his  spirit,  if  that  "mount- 
ing spirit"  could  have  been  crushed,  one  whole 
day  in  the  week,  and  his  leisure  hours  on  the 
others,  were  em?)loyed  in  carrying  the  butcher's 
basket.  Some  differences  at  length  arose  between 
his  father  and  Mr.  Blanchard,  in  consequence  of 
which  Henry  was  removed. 

ASH 


VI 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


One  of  the  ushers,  when  he  came  to  receive  the 
money  due  for  tuition,  took  the  opportunity  of 
informing  Mrs.  White  what  an  incorrigible  son 
she  had,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  the 
lad  do  anything.  Tliis  information  made  his 
friends  very  uneasy :  they  were  dispirited  about 
him ;  and  had  they  relied  wholly  upon  this  report, 
the  stupidity  or  malice  of  this  man  would  have 
blasted  Henry's  progress  for  ever.  He  was,  how- 
ever, placed  under  the  care  of  a  Mr.  Shipley,  who 
soon  discovered  that  he  was  a  boy  of  quick  per- 
ception, and  very  admirable  talents ;  and  came 
with  joy,  like  a  good  man,  to  relieve  the  anxiety 
and  painful  suspicions  of  his  family. 

While  his  schoolmasters  were  complaining  that 
they  could  make  nothing  of  him,  he  discovered 
what  Nature  had  made  him,  and  wro*e  satires 
upon  them.  These  pieces  were  never  shown  to 
any,  except  his  most  particular  friends,  who  say 
that  they  were  pointed  and  severe.  They  are 
enumerated  in  the  table  of  contents  to  one  of  his 
manuscript  volumes,  under  the  title  of  School- 
Lampoons  ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he  had 
cut  the  leaves  out  and  destroyed  them. 

One  of  his  poems,  written  at  this  time,  and 
under  these  feelings,  is  preserved : 

ON  BEING  CONFINED  TO  SCHOOL  ONE  PLEASANT 
3I0RNING  IN  SPRING. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  THIRTEEN. 

The  morninc  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise ; 
Now  the  lark,  with  upward  flight, 
Gayly  ushers  in  the  light: 
While,  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 
The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty 

But  for  me  no  songster  sings. 
For  me  no  joyous  lark  up-springs; 
For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school, 
Must  own  the  pgdants  iron  rule. 
And,  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers, 
In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours; 
There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines. 
Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines, 
And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 

How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
AH  that  arithmeticians  know. 
Or  stiff  grammarians  quaintly  teach. 
Or  all  that  industry  can  reach. 
To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise ; 
And  unconstrain'd  to  rove  along 
The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among; 
And  woo  the  muse's  gentle  power, 
In  undequented  rural  bosver! 
But,  ah!  such  heaven-approaching  joys 
Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes; 
Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine, 
Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen! 


Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove, 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove, 
There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee. 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty 
And  till  death  s^hould  stop  my  lays, 
Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 

About  this  time  his  mother  was  induced,  by  the 
advice  of  several  friends,  to  open  a  Ladies'  Board- 
ing and  Day  School  in  Nottingham,  her  eldest 
dauo-hter  having  previously  been  a  teacher  in  one 
for  some  time.  In  this  she  succeeded  beyond  her 
most  sanguine  expectations,  and  Henry's  home- 
comforts  were  thus  materially  increased,  though 
it  w^as  still  out  of  the  power  of  his  family  to  give 
him  that  education  and  direction  in  Ufe  which 
his  talents  deserved  and  required. 

It  was  now  determined  to  breed  him  up  to  the 
hosiery  trade,  tlie  staple  manufacture  of  his  native 
place ;  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed 
in  a  stocking-loom,  with  the  view,  at  some  future 
period,  of  getting  a  situation  in  a  hosier's  ware 
house.  During  the  time  that  he  was  thus  employ 
ed,  he  might  be  said  to  be  truly  unhappy ;  he  wenc 
to  his  work  with  evident  reluctance,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  sometimes  hinting  his  extreme 
aversion  to  it ;  but  the  circumstances  of  his  family 
obliged  them  to  turn  a  deaf  ear.'  His  mother, 
however,  secretly  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  better 


1  His  temper  and  tone  of  mind  at  this  period,  when  h» 
was  in  his  fourteenth  year,  are  displayed  in  this  extract 
from  an  Address  to  Contemplation. 

Thee  do  I  own.  the  prompter  of  my  joys. 
The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace  ; 
And  I  will  ne'er  f  >rsake  thee.— Men  may  rave, 
And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  I  don't  tie 
My  cv'ry  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 
The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 
With  accurate  monotony  ;  that  so 
The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 
And  I  may  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth: 
But.  oh!  I  was  not  made  for  money-getting; 
For  me  no  much-respected  plume  awaits, 
Nor  civic  honor,  envied.— For  as  still 
I  tried  to  cast  with  school  de.vterity 
The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant  thoughts 
Wouli  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt. 
Which  fond  remembrance  cherish'd,  and  the  pen 
Dropt  from  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictured, 
In  my  mind's  eys,  how  on  the  shores  of  Trent 
I  ere%vhile  wander'd  with  my  early  friends 
In  social  intercourse.    And  then  I'd  think 
How  contrary  pursuits  had  thrown  us  wide, 
One  from  the  other,  scatter'd  o'er  the  globe ; 
They  were  set  down  with  sol)er  steadiness. 
Each  to  his  occupation.  I  alone, 
A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 
Bemain'd  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 
With  ev'ry  win.'  to  ev'ry  point  o'  th'  compass. 
Yes.  in  the  countins-house  I  could  indulge 
In  fits  of  close  abstraction  :  yea,  amid 
The  busy,  bustling  crowds  could  meditate. 
And  send  my  thoichts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 
Eeyon  !  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 
Aye,  Contemplation,  ev'n  in  earliest  youth 

422 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Vll 


things :  to  her  he  spoke  more  openly ;  he  could 
oot  bear,  he  said,  the  thought  of  spending  seven 
years  of  his  life  in  shining  and  folding  up  stock- 
ino-s;  he  wanted  something  to  occupy  his  brain,  and 
he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued  longer  at 
this  trade,  or  indeed  in  anything  except  one  of 
the  learned  professions.  These  frequent  com- 
plaints, after  a  year's  application,  or  rather  mis- 
application  (as  his  brother  says),  at  the  loom, 
convinced  her  that  he  had  a  mind  destined  for 
nobler  pursuits. 

To  one  so  situated,  and  with  nothing  but  his 
own  talents  and  exertions  to  depend  upon,  the 
Law  seemed  to  be  the  only  practicable  line.  His 
affectionate  and  excellent  mother  made  every  pos- 
sible effort  to  effect  his  wishes,  his  father  being 
very  averse  to  the  plan;  and  at  length,  after 
overcoming  a  variety  of  obstacles,  he  was  fixed 
tin  the  office  of  Messrs.  Coldham  and  Enfield,  at- 
torneys and  town-clerks  of  Nottingham.  As  no 
premium  could  be  given  with  him,  lie  was  engaged 
to  serve  two  years  before  he  was  articled  :  so  that, 
though  he  entered  this  office  when  he  was  fifteen, 
he  was  not  articled  till  the  commencement  of  the 
year  1802. 

On  his  thus  entering  the  Law,  it  was  recom- 
mended to  him  by  his  employers,  that  he  should 
endeavor  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  Latin. 
He  had  now  only  the  little  time  which  an  at- 
torney's office,  in  very  extensive  practice,  afford- 
ed ;  but  great  things  may  be  done  in  "those  hours 
of  leisure  which  even  the  busiest  may  create,''^ 

I  woo'd  thy  heavenly  influence  !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils  were  done, 

To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 

And  hear  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 

Oh,  those  were  times  of  happiness,  and  still 

To  memory  doubly  dear!  for  growing  years 

Had  not  then  taught  me  man  \vas  made  to  mourn, 

And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure. 

Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompense 

For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 

My  op'ning  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic, 

And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away. 

While  I  was  sway'd  by  every  novel  impulse. 

Yielding  to  all  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 

But  it  has  now  assumed  its  character ; 

JIark'd  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone. 

Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend. 

Yet  still,  Oh  Contemplation  !  I  do  love 

To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings  ;  still  the  same 

With  thee  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep. 

In  thee  alone  delighting.  Why  along 

The  dusky  track  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 

When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 

I  can  alone  be  happy?  where,  with  thee, 

I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 

And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy!— Thus  alone 

Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  earth  ; 

And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end. 

For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  good. 


1  Turner's  Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 


and  to  his  ardent  mind  no  obstacles  were  too 
discouraging.  He  received  some  instruction  in 
the  first  rudiments  of  this  language  from  a  person 
who  then  resided  at  Nottingham  under  a  feigned 
name,  but  was  soon  obliged  to  leave  it,  to  elude 
the  search  of  government,  who  were  then  seeking 
to  secure  him.  Henry  discovered  him  to  be  Mr 
Cormick,  from  a  print  affixed  to  a  continuation 
of  Hume  and  Smollett,  and  published,  with  their 
histories,  by  Cooke.  He  i?,  I  believe,  the  same 
person  who  wrote  a  life  of  Burke.  L^  he  received 
any  other  assistance  it  was  very  trifling ;  yet,  in 
the  course  of  ten  months,  he  enabled  himself  to 
read  Horace  with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made 
some  progress  in  Greek,  which  indeed  he  began 
first.  He  used  to  exercise  himself  in  declining 
the  Greek  nouns  and  verbs  as  he  was  going  to 
and  from  the  office,  so  valuable  was  time  become 
to  him.  t^rom  this  time  he  contracted  a  liabit  of 
employing  his  mind  in  study  during  his  walks, 
which  he  continued  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

He  now  became  almost  estranged  from  liis  fam- 
ily ;  even  at  his  meals  he  would  be  reading,  and 
his  evenings  were  entirely  devoted  to  intellectual 
improvement.  He  had  a  little  room  given  him, 
which  was  called  his  study ;  and  here  his  milk 
supper  was  taken  up  to  him ;  for,  to  avoid  any 
loss  of  time,  he  refused  to  sup  with  his  family, 
though  earnestly  entreated  so  to  do,  as  his  mother 
already  began  to  dread  the  effects  of  this  severe 
and  unreinitting  application.  The  Law  was  his 
first  pursuit,  to  which  his  papers  show  he  had 
applied  himself  with  such  industry,  as  to  make  it 
wonderful  that  he  could  have  found  time,  busied 
as  his  days  were,  for  anything  else.  Greek  and 
Latin  were  the  next  objects  :  at  the  same  time  he 
made  himself  a  tolerable  Italian  scholar,  and  ac- 
quired some  knowledge  both  of  the  Spanish  and 
Portuguese.  His  medical  friends  say  that  the 
knowledge  he  had  obtained  of  chemistry  was  very 
respectable.  Astronomy  and  electricity  were 
among  his  studies.  Some  attention  he  paid  to 
drawing,  in  which  it  is  probable  he  would  have 
excelled.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  music, 
and  could  play  very  pleasingly  by  ear  on  the 
piano-forte,  composing  the  bass  to  the  air  lie  was 
playing ;  but  this  propensity  he  checked,  lest  it 
might  interfere  with  more  important  objects.  Ho 
had  a  turn  for  mechanics ;  and  all  tlie  fittings-up 
of  his  study  were  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 

At  a  very  early  age,  indeed  soon  after  he  waa 
taken  from  school,  Henry  was  ambitious  of  being 
admitted  a  member  of  a  Literary  Society  then  ex- 
isting  in  Nottingham,  but  was  objected  to  on  ac- 
count of  his  youth.  After  repeated  attempts  and  re- 
peated  failures,  he  succeeded  in  his  wish,  through 
tlie  exertions  of  some  of  his  friends,  and  was 
elected.  There  were  six  Professors  in  this  Society 


vm 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


and,  upon  the  first  vacancy,  he  was  appointed  to 
the  chair  of  Literature.  It  may  well  appear 
strange  that  a  society,  in  so  large  a  town  as  Not- 
tingham, instituted  for  the  purpose  of  acquirirg 
and  diffusing  knowledge,  and  respectable  enough 
to  be  provided  with  a  good  philosophical  ap- 
paratus, should  have  chosen  a  boy,  in  the  fifteenth 
year  of  his  age,  to  deliver  lectures  to  them  upon 
general  literature.  The  first  subject  upon  which 
he  held  forth  was  Genius.  Having  taken  a  day  to 
consider  the  subject,  he  spoke  upon  it  extempore, 
and  harangued  for  two  hours  and  three  quarters : 
yet,  instead  of  being  wearied,  his  hearers  passed 
a  unanimous  resolution,  "  That  the  most  sincere 
thanks  be  given  to  the  Professor  for  his  most  in- 
structive and  entertaining  lecture ;  at  the  same 
time  assuring  him  that  the  Society  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  a  better  lecture  delivered  from 
that  chair  which  he  so  much  honored :"  and 
they  then  elected  him  one  of  their  committee. 
There  are  certain  courts  at  Nottingham,  in  which 
it  is  necessary  for  an  attorney  to  plead ;  and  he 
wished  to  qualify  himself  for  a  speaker  as  well  as 
a  sound  lawyer. 

With  the  profession  in  which  he  was  placed  he 
was  well  pleased,  and  suffered  no  pursuit,  nu- 
merous as  his  pursuits  were,  to  interfere  in  the 
slightest  degree  with  its  duties.  Yet  he  soon 
began  to  have  higher  aspirations,  and  to  cast  a 
wistful  eye  toward  the  Universities,  with  little 
hope  of  ever  attaining  tiieir  important  advantages, 
yet  probably  not  without  some,  however  faint. 
There  was  at  this  time  a  magazine  in  publication, 
called  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed 
prizethemes  for  boys  and  girls  to  write  upon ;  and 
which  was  encouraged  by  many  schoolmasters, 
some  of  whom,  for  their  own  credit,  and  that  of 
the  important  institutions  in  which  they  were 
placed,  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  en- 
courage it.  But  in  schools,  and  in  all  practical 
systems  of  education,  emulation  is  made  the  main- 
spring, as  if  there  were  not  enough  of  the  leaven 
of  disquietude  in  our  natures,  without  inocu- 
lating it  with  this  dilutement — this  vaccine  virus 
of  envy.  True  it  is,  that  we  need  encourage- 
ment in  youth ;  that  though  our  vices  spring  up 
and  thrive  in  shade  and  darkness,  like  poisonous 
fungi,  our  better  powers  require  light  and  air ; 
and  that  praise  is  the  sunshine,  without  which 
genius  will  wither,  fade,  and  die ;  or  rather  in 
search  of  which,  like  a  plant  that  is  debarred  from 
it,  will  push  forth  in  contortions  and  deformity. 
Bat  such  practices  as  that  of  writing  for  public 
prizes,  of  publicly  declaiming,  and  of  enacting 
ulays  before  the  neighboring  gentry,  teach  boys 
to  look  for  applaus?  instead  of  being  satisfied  with 
approbation,  and  foster  in  them  that  vanity  which 
needs  no  such  cherishing.  This  is  administerinor 


stimulants  to  the  heart,  instead  of  "feeding 
with  food  convenient  for  it ;"  and  the  effect 
such  stimulants  is  to  dwarf  the  human  mind, 
lap-dogs  are  said  to  be  stopt  in  their  growth  1 
being  dosed  with  gin.  Thus  forced^  it  becom 
like  the  sapling  w^hich  shoots  up  when  it  shou 
be  striking  its  roots  far  and  deep,  and  whicli  thei 
fore  never  attains  to  more  than  a  sapling's  size 
To  Henry,  however,  the  opportunity  of  disti 
guishing  himself,  even  in  the  Juvenile  Librar 
was  useful ;  if  he  had  acted  with  a  man's  foresigl 
he  could  not  have  done  more  wisely  than  by  aii 
ing  at  every  distinction  within  his  little  sphei 
At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  gained  a  silver  medal  i 
a  translation  from  Horace ;  and  the  following  ye 
a  pair  of  twelve-inch  globes,  for  an  imagina 
Tour  from  London  to  Edinburgh.  He  determine 
upon  trying  for  this  prize  one  evening  when  at  t 
with  his  family,  and  at  supper  he  read  to  them  1; 
performance,  to  which  seven  pages  v;ere  grant 
in  the  magazine,  though  they  had  limited  t 
allowance  of  room  to  three.  Shortly  afterwar 
he  won  several  books  for  exercises  on  differe 
subjects.  Such  honors  were  of  great  importan 
to  him ;  they  were  testimonies  of  his  ability,  whi 
could  not  be  suspected  of  partiality,  and  th 
prepared  his  father  to  regard  with  less  reluctar 
that  change  in  his  views  and  wishes  which  aft 
wards  took  place.  It  appears  by  a  letter  writl 
soon  after  he  had  completed  his  fifteenth  je. 
that  many  of  his  pieces  in  prose  and  verse,  unc 
feigned  signatures,  had  gained  admission  in 
various  magazines  of  the  day,  more  particula 
in  the  Monthly  Magazine  and  the  Monthly  Visi  I 
"  In  prosaic  composition,"  he  says,  "  I  never  1 
one  article  refused :  in  poetic,  many," — "  I 
conscious,"  he  observes,  at  this  time,  to  his  b  • 
ther,  "  that  if  I  chose  I  could  produce  poe  i 
infinitely  superior  to  any  you  have  yet  seen 
mine  ;  but  I  am  so  indolent,  and  at  the  same  ti ' 
so  much  engaged,  that  I  cannot  give  the  time  1 1 
attention  necessary  for  the  formation  of  corr  t 
and  accurate  pieces."  Less  time  and  attent  i 
are  necessary  for  correcting  prose,  and  this  n  ' 
be  one  reason  why,  contrary  to  the  usual  proct,, 
a  greater  prematurity  is  discernable  in  his  pr  J 
than  in  his  metrical  compositions.  "The  reaso  ' 
he  says,  "  of  the  number  of  erasures  and  con  - 
tions  in  ray  letter  is,  that  it  contains  a  rough  tr  - 
script  of  the  state  of  my  mind,  without  my  hav  ^ 
made  any  sketch  on  another  paper.  When  I  t 
down  to  write,  ideas  crowd  into  my  mind  too  t 
for  utterance  upon  paper.  Some  of  them  I  th  k 
too  precious  to  be  lost,  and  for  fear  their  imp  ;- 
sion  should  be  effaced,  I  write  as  rapidly  as  )- 
sible.   This  accounts  for  my  bad  writing.'' 

He  now  became  a  correspondent  in  the  3Ion'  f 
Mirror,  a  magazine  which  first  set  the  exampl  tf 

424 


I 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


IX 


typographical  neatness  in  periodical  publications, 
which  has  given  the  world  a  good  series  of  por- 
traits, and  which  deserves  praise  also  on  other 
accounts,  having  among  its  contributors  some 
persons  of  extensive  erudition  and  acknowledged 
talents.  Magazines  are  of  great  service  to  those 
who  are  learning  to  write  ;  they  are  fishing-boats, 
which  the  Buccaneers  of  Literature  do  not  con- 
descend to  sink,  burn,  and  destroy :  young  poets 
may  safely  try  their  strength  in  them ;  and  that 
they  sfiould  try  their  strength  before  the  public, 
without  danger  of  any  shame  from  failure,  is 
highly  desirable.  Henry's  rapid  improvement 
was  now  as  remarkable  as  his  unwearied  industry. 
The  pieces  which  had  been  rewarded  in  the  Ju- 
venile Preceptor  might  have  been  rivalled  by 
many  boys  ;  but  what  he  produced  a  year  after- 
wards, few  men  could  equal.  Those  which  ap- 
peared in  the  IMonthly  Mirror  attracted  some 
notice,  and  introduced  him  to  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Capel  LofFt,  and  of  Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor 
of  the  work,  a  gentleman  who  was  himself  a  lover 
of  English  literature,  and  who  possessed  one  ol 
the  most  copious  collections  of  English  poetry  in 
existence.  Their  encouragement  induced  him, 
about  the  close  of  the  year  1802,  to  prepare  a 
little  volume  of  poems  for  the  press.  It  was  his 
hope  that  this  publication  might  either,  by  the 
success  of  its  sale,  or  the  notice  which  it  might 
excite,  enable  him  to  prosecute  his  studies  at  col- 
lege, and  fit  liimself  for  holy  orders.  For,  though 
80  far  was  he  from  feeling  any  dislike  to  his  own 
profession,  that  he  was  even  attached  to  it,  and 
had  indulged  a  hope  that  one  day  or  other  he 
should  make  his  way  to  the  Bar,  a  deafness,  to 
which  he  had  always  been  subject,  and  which 
appeared  to  grow  progressively  v/orse,  threatened 
to  preclude  all  possibility  of  advancement ;  and 
his  opinions,  which  had  at  one  time  inclined  to 
infidelity,  had  now  taken  a  strong  devotional  bias. 
Henry  was  earnestly  advised  to  obtain,  if  pos- 
sible, some  patroness  for  his  book,  whose  rank  in 
life,  and  notoriety  in  the  literary  world,  might 
afford  it  some  protection.  The  days  of  such  dedi- 
cations are  happily  well-nigh  at  an  end ;  but  this 
was  of  importance  to  him,  as  giving  his  liltle 
volume  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends 
aiid  townsmen.  The  Countess  of  Derby  was  first 
applied  to,  and  the  manuscript  submitted  to 
her  perusal.  She  returned  it  with  a  refusal,  upon 
the  ground  that  it  was  an  invariable  rule  with 
her  never  to  accept  a  compliment  of  the  kind ; 
but  this  refusal  was  couched  in  language  as  kind 
as  it  was  complimentary,  and  he  felt  more  pleasure 
at  the  kindness  which  it  expressed,  than  disap- 
pointment at  the  failure  of  his  application  :  a  2Z. 
note  was  inclosed  as  her  subscription  to  the  work. 
The  margravine  of  Anspach  was  also  thought  of 
54  2L2 


There  is  among  his  papers  tlic  draught  of  a  letter 
addressed  to  her  upon  the  subject,  but  I  believe 
it  was  never  sent.  He  was  then  recommended  to 
apply  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Poor  Henry 
felt  a  fit  of  repugnance  at  courting  patronage  in 
this  way,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  of  consetjuence  in 
his  little  world,  and  submitted  ;  and  the  manu- 
script was  left,  with  a  letter,  at  Devonsliire  House, 
as  it  had  been  witli  the  Countess  of  Deroy.  Some 
time  elapsed,  and  no  answer  arrived  from  her 
Grace  ;  and,  as  she  was  known  to  be  pestered  with 
such  applications,  apprehensions  began  to  be 
entertained  for  the  safety  of  tho  papers.  His 
brother  Neville  (who  was  now  settled  in  London) 
called  several  times ;  of  course  he  never  obtained 
an  interview :  the  case  at  last  became  desperate, 
and  he  went  with  a  determination  not  to  quit  the 
house  till  he  had  obtained  tJiem.  After  waiting 
four  hours  in  the  servants'  hall,  his  perseverance 
conquered  their  idle  in.solence,  and  he  got  pos- 
session of  the  manuscript.  And  here  he,  as  well 
as  his  brother,  sick  of  "dancing  attendance" 
upon  the  great,  would  have  relinquished  all 
thoughts  of  the  dedication,  but  they  were  urged 
to  make  one  more  trial : — a  letter  to  her  Grace 
was  procured,  with  which  Neville  obtained  au- 
dience, wisely  leaving  the  manuscript  at  home : 
and  the  Duchess,  with  her  usual  good-nature, 
gave  permission  that  the  volume  should  be  dedi- 
cated to  her.  Accordingly  her  name  appeared 
in  the  title-page,  and  a  copy  was  transmitted  to 
her  in  due  form,  and  in  its  due  morocco  livery, — 
of  which  no  notice  was  ever  taken.  Involved  as  she 
was  in  an  endless  round  of  miserable  follies,  it  is 
probable  that  she  never  opened  the  book,  other- 
wise her  heart  was  good  enough  to  have  felt  a 
pleasure  in  encouraging  the  author.  Oh,  what 
a  lesson  would  the  history  of  that  heart  hold  out! 
Henry  sent  his  little  volume  to  each  of  the  then 
existing  Reviews,  and  accompanied  it  with  a  let- 
ter, wherein  he  stated  what  his  disadvantages  had 
been,  and  what  were  the  hopes  which  he  proposed 
to  himself  from  the  publication  :  requesting  from 
them  that  indulgence  of  which  his  productions 
did  not  stand  in  need,  and  which  it  might  have 
been  thought,  under  such  circumstances,  would 
not  have  been  withheld  from  works  of  less  prom- 
ise. It  may  be  well  conceived  with  what  anxiety 
he  looked  for  their  opinions,  and  with  what  feel- 
ings  he  read  the  following  article  in  the  Monthly 
Review  for  February,  1804. 

Monthly  Rcmeic,  February,  1804. 
"The  circumstances  under  which  this  little 
volume  is  offered  to  the  public,  must,  in  some 
measure,  disarm  criticism.  Wc  have  been  in 
formed  that  Mr.  White  has  scarcely  attained  his 
eighteenth  year,  has  hitherto  exerted  himself  rn 

425 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


the  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  the  discourage- 
ments of  penury  and  misfortune,  and  now  hopes, 
by  this  early  authorship,  to  obtain  some  assistance 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  at  Cambridge. 
He  appears,  indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  young 
men  of  talents  and  application  who  merit  encour- 
agement ;  and  it  would  be  gratifying  to  us  to  hear 
that  this  publication  had  obtained  for  him  a  re- 
spectable patron  ;  for  we  fear  that  the  mei-e  profit 
arising  from  the  sale  cannot  be,  in  any  measure, 
adequate  to  his  exigencies  as  a  student  at  the  uni- 
versity. A  subscription,  with  a  statement  of  the 
particulars  of  the  author's  case,  might  have  been 
calculated  to  have  answered  his  purpose ;  but,  as 
a  book  which  is  to  '  win  its  way '  on  the  sole 
ground  of  its  own  merit,  this  poem  cannot  be  con- 
templated with  any  sanguine  expectation.  The 
author  is  very  anxious,  however,  that  critics 
should  find  in  it  something  to  commend,  and  he 
shall  not  be  disappointed :  we  commend  his  ex- 
ertions and  his  laudable  endeavors  to  excel ;  but 
we  cannot  compliment  him  with  having  learned 
the  difficult  art  of  writing  good  poetry. 

"  Such  lines  as  these  will  sufficiently  prove  our 
assertion  : 

Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  Boy, 
When  the  hoarse  thunder  shook  the  vaulted  Sky, 
And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  in  the  eddying  stunn. 

*'  If  Mr.  White  should  be  instructed  by  Alma- 
mater,  he  will,  doubtless,  produce  better  sense 
and  better  rhymes." 

I  know  not  who  was  the  writer  of  this  precious 
article.  It  is  certain  that  Henry  could  have  no 
personal  enemy  :  his  volume  fell  into  the  hands 
of  some  dull  man,  who  took  it  up  in  an  hour  of 
ill-humor,  turned  over  the  leaves  to  look  for 
faults,  and  finding  that  Buy  and  Sky  were  not  or- 
thodox rhymes,  according  to  his  wise  canons  of 
criticism,  sat  down  to  blast  the  hopes  of  a  boy, 
who  had  confessed  to  him  all  his  hopes  and  all  his 
difficulties,  and  thrown  himself  upon  his  mercy. 
With  such  a  letter  before  him  (by  mere  accident 

saw  that  which  had  been  sent  to  the  Critical 
Review),  even  though  the  poems  had  been  bad,  a 
good  man  would  not  have  said  so  :  he  would  have 
avoided  censure,  if  he  had  found  it  impossible  to 
bestow  praise.  But  that  the  reader  may  perceive 
the  wicked  injustice,  as  well  as  the  cruelty  of  this 
reviewal,  a  few  specimens  of  the  volume,  thus 
contemptuously  condemned  because  Boy  and  Sky 
are  used  as  rhymes  in  it,  shall  be  inserted  in  this 
place. 

TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY. » 
Sweet-scented  flower!  who  art  wont  to  bloom 
On  January's  front  severe, 


1  The   Rosemary  buds  in  January.     It  is  the  flower 
Aommonly  put  in  the  coflins  of  the  dead. 


And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 

To  waft  thy  waste  perfume! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  we^ve  a  melancholy  song: 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long, 

The  melody  of  death. 

Come,  funeral  flow'r!  who  lovr^t  to  dwell 
With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 
And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 

Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 

Beneath  the  lowly  Alder-tree, 
And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep. 

And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude. 

To  break  the  marble  solitude, 
So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 

And  hark!  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies. 

Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees. 

And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze. 
Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower!  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf-altar  of  the  dead  ; 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot, 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 


TO  THE  MORNING. 

WRITTEN   DURING   ILLNESS. 

Beams  of  the  day-break  faint !  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  Night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 

I  mark  your  traces  pale. 
Tired  with  the  taper's  sickly  light, 
And  with  the  wearying,  numberd  night, 

I  hail  the  streaks  of  mnrn  divine  : 
And  lo!  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreaths 

That  roTind  my  rural  casement  twine : 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes ; 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow,— it  calms  the  mental  strife. 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 

The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun, 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 
Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread ; 

Now  through  the  custom'd  wood-walk  wend; 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 

Where  high  o'erhead  the  wild  briers  bend, 
Till  on  the  mountains  summit  grey, 
I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day 

Oh,  Heav'n !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 

It  breathes  into  my  breast! 
My  sunk  eye  gleams  ;  my  cheek,  so  pale. 

Is  with  new  colors  drest. 
Blithe  Health!  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease, 
Come  thou  too  on  the  balmy  breeze. 

Invigorate  my  frame: 
1  '11  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  chace. 
With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace, 

Bevond  those  clouds  of  flaine. 


426 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


XI 


Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view ! 
Before  me  all  is  burnish"d  gold, 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await, 
Far  to  the  west  they  hold  their  state, 
They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  JMorn ; 
Along  the  fine  cerulean  sky. 
The  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly, 
While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds  adorn. 

And  hark !  the  Thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves, 
And  oft  the  Hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road, 

The  noisy  whip  resounds. 
The  drivers  voice,  his  carol  blithe. 
The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  scythe, 

Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 

Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees. 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet. 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze. 
Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie? 
Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy? 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er. 
Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close, 

To  ope  on  him  no  more  : 
Yet,  Morning!  unrepining  still 

He  "11  greet  thy  beams  awhile ; 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 
Solemn  the  whispering  willows  wave, 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile ; 
And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless  night. 

An  autlior  is  proof  against  reviewing,  \vhen, 
like  myself,  he  has  been  reviewed  some  seventy 
times ;  but  the  opinion  of  a  reviewer,  upon  his 
first  publication,  has  more  effect,  both  upon  his 
feeling.s  and  his  success,  than  it  ought  to  have,  or 
would  have,  if  the  mystery  of  the  ungentle  craft 
were  more  generally  understood.  Henry  wrote 
to  the  editor  to  complain  of  the  cruelty  with  which 
he  had  been  treated.  This  remonstrance  produced 
the  followinof  answer  in  the  next  number  : 


Monthly  Review,  March,  1804. 

ADDRESS  TO  CORRESPOXDENTS. 

"  In  the  course  of  our  long  critical  labors,  we 
have  necessarily  been  forced  to  encoimter  the  re 
sentment,  or  withstand  the  lamentations,  of  many 
disappointed  authors ;  but  we  have  seldom,  if 
ever,  been  more  affected  than  by  a  letter  from 
Mr.  White,  of  Nottingham,  complaining  of  the 
tendency  of  our  strictures  on  his  poem  of  Cliflon 
Grove,  in  our  last  number.  His  expostulations 
are  written  with  a  warmth  of  feeling-  in  which  we 


truly  sympathize,  and  which  shall  readily  excuse, 
with  us,  some  expressions  of  irritation  ;  but  Mr. 
White  must  receive  our  most  serious  declaration, 
that  we  did  'judge  of  the  book  by  the  book  it- 
self ;  excepting  only,  that,  from  his  former  letter, 
we  were  desirous  of  mitigating  the  pain  of  that 
decision  which  our  public  duty  required  us  to 
pronounce.  We  spoke  with  the  utmost  sincerity 
when  we  stated  our  wishes  for  patronage  to  an 
unfriended  man  of  talents,  for  talents  Mr.  White 
certainly  possesses,  and  we  repeat  those  wishes 
with  equal  cordiality.  Let  him  still  trust  that, 
like  Mr.  Gifford  (see  preface  to  his  translation  ot 
Juvenal),  some  Mr.  Cookesley  may  yet  appear  to 
foster  a  capacity  which  endeavors  to  escape  from 
its  present  confined  sphere  of  action;  and  let  the 
opulent  inhabitants  of  Nottingham  reflect,  that 
some  portion  of  that  wealth  which  they  have 
worthily  acquired  by  the  habits  of  industry,  will 
be  laudably  applied  in  assisting  the  efforts  of 
mind." 

Henry  was  not  aware  that  reviewers  are  infal- 
lible.  His  letter  seems  to  have  been  answered  by 
a  different  writer ;  the  answer  has  none  of  the 
commonplace  and  vulgar  insolence  of  the  criti- 
cism  :  but  to  have  made  any  concession  would 
have  been  admitting  that  a  review  can  do  wrong, 
and  thus  violating  the  fundamental  principle  of 
its  constitution. 

The  poems  w^hich  had  been  thus  condemned, 
appeared  to  me  to  discover  strong  marks  of  ge- 
nius. I  had  shown  them  to  two  of  my  friends, 
than  whom  no  persons  living  better  understand 
what  poetry  is,  nor  have  given  better  proofs  of 
it ;  and  their  opinion  coincided  with  my  own.  I 
was  indignant  at  the  injustice  of  this  pretended 
criticism,  and  having  accidentally  seen  the  letter 
which  he  had  written  to  the  reviewers,  under- 
stood the  whole  cruelty  of  their  injustice.  In 
consequence  of  this  I  wrote  to  Henry,  to  encour- 
age him  ;  told  him,  that  though  I  was  well  aware 
how  imprudent  it  was  in  young  poets  to  publish 
their  productions,  his  circumstances  seemed  tc 
render  that  expedient,  from  which  it  would  other- 
wise be  right  to  dissuade  him  ;  advised  him  there- 
fore, if  he  had  no  better  prospects,  to  print  a 
larger  volume  by  subscription,  and  offered  to  do 
what  little  was  in  my  power  to  serve  him  in  the 
undertaking.  To  this  he  replied  in  the  following 
letter  : — 

*         *         *         »         * 

"  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opin- 
ion of  my  little  volume.  The  extreme  acrimony 
with  which  the  Monthly  Review  (of  all  others  the 
most  important)  treated  me,  threw  me  into  a 
state  of  stupefaction ;  I  regarded  all  that  had 
passed  as  a  dream,  and  I  thought  I  had  been  de- 
luding  myself  into  an  idea  of  possessing  poetic 

427 


Xll 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


genius,  when  in  fact  I  had  only  the  longing,  with- 
out the  afflatus.  I  mustered  resolution  enougli, 
liowever,  to  write  spiritedly  to  them :  their  an- 
swer in  the  ensuing  number  was  a  tacit  acknov\  - 
ledgment  that  they  had  been  somew^hat  too  un- 
sparing in  their  correction.  It  v/as  a  poor  attempt 
to  salve  over  a  wound  wantonly  and  most  un- 
generously inflicted.  Still  I  was  damped,  because 
I  knew  tJie  work  was  very  respectable  ;  and  there- 
fore could  not,  I  concluded,  give  a  criticism  gross- 
ly deficient  in  equity — the  more  especially,  as  I 
knew  of  no  sort  of  inducement  to  extraordinary 
severity.  Your  letter,  however,  has  revived  me, 
and  I  do  again  venture  to  hope  that  I  may  still 
produce  something  which  will  survive  me. 

"  Witli  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  as- 
sistance, I  will  not  attempt,  because  1  am  unable, 
to  thank  you  for  them.  To-morrow  mornmg  I  de- 
part for  Cambridge  ;  and  I  have  considerable 
hopes  that,  as  I  do  not  enter  into  the  University 
with  any  sinister  or  interested  views,  but  sincere- 
ly desire  to  perform  the  duties  of  an  affectionate 
and  vigilant  pastor,  and  become  more  useful  to 
mankind,  I  therefore  have  hopes,  I  say,t]iat  I  shall 
find  means  of  support  in  the  University.  If  I  do 
not,  I  shall  certainly  act  in  pursuance  of  your  re- 
commendations ;  and  shall,  without  hesitation, 
avail  myself  of  your  offers  of  service,  and  of  your 
directions. 

"  In  a  short  time  this  will  be  determined ;  and 
when  it  is,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  to 
you  at  Keswick,  to  make  you  acquainted  wath  the 
result. 

"  I  have  only  one  objection  to  publishing  by 
subscription,  and  I  confess  it  has  weight  with 
xx\Q ; — it  is,  that,  in  this  step,  I  shall  seem  to  be 
acting  upon  the  advice  so  unfeelingly  and  contu- 
meliously  given  by  the  Monthly  Reviewers,  who 
say  what  is  equal  to  this — that  had  I  gotten  a  sub- 
scription for  my  poems  before  their  merit  w^as 
known,  I  might  have  succeeded;  provided,  it  seems, 
I  had  made  a  particular  statement  of?ny  case;  like  a 
beggar  who  stands  with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and 
a  full  account  of  his  cruel  treatment  on  the  coast 
of  Barbary  in  the  other,  and  so  gives  you  his 
penny  sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by  way  of  half- 
purchase,  half-charity. 

"I  have  materials  for  another  volume  ;  but  they 
were  written  principally  while  Clifton  Grove  was 
in  tne  press,  or  soon  after,  and  do  not  now  at  all 
satisfy  me.  Indeed,  of  late,  I  have  been  obliged 
to  desist,  almost  entirely,  from  converse  wdth  the 
dames  of  Helicon.  The  drudgery  of  an  attorney's 
office,  and  the  necessity  of  preparing  myself,  in 
case  I  should  succeed  in  getting  to  college,  in 
what  little  leisure  I  could  boast,  left  no  room  for 
the  flights  of  the  im.agination." 

In  another  letter  he  speaks,  in  still  stronger 


terms,  of  wliat  he  had  suffered  from  the  unfeel 


mg 


and  iniquitous  criticism : 

"The  unfavorable  review  (in  the  'Monthly'" 
of  my  unhappy  work,  has  cut  deeper  than  yoii 
could  have  thought;  not  in  a  literary  jwint  of  view 
but  as  it  affects  my  respectability.  It  represent; 
me  actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gatlierinj 
money  to  put  myself  at  college,  v.'hen  my  work  i; 
worthless ;  and  this  with  every  appearance  o: 
candor.  They  have  been  sadly  misinformed  re 
specting  me :  this  review  goes  before  me  whereve 
I  turn  my  steps:  it  haunts  me  incessantly;  and 
am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  o 
Satan  to  drive  me  to  distraction.  I  must  leavi 
Nottingham." 

It  is  not  unv/orthy  of  remark,  that  this  vcr 
reviewal,  which  was  designed  to  crush  the  hope 
of  Henry,  and  suppress  his  struggling  genius,  ha, 
been,  in  its  consequences,  tlic  main  occasion  o| 
bringing  his  Remains  to  light,  and  obtaining  fo 
him  that  fame  which  assuredly  will  be  his  poi 
tion.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  indignation  whic 
I  felt  at  perusing  a  criticism  ai  once  so  cruel  an 
so  stupid,  the  little  intercourse  between  Henr 
and  myself  would  not  have  taken  place ;  hi 
papers  would  probably  have  remained  in  oblivioi 
and  his  name  in  a  few  years  have  been  forgottei 

I  have  stated  that  his  opinions  were,  at  od 
time,  inclining  towards  deism :  it  needs  not  I 
said  on  what  slight  grounds  the  opinions  of 
youth  must  needs  be  founded :  while  they  ai 
confined  to  matters  of  speculation,  they  indicat 
whatever  their  eccentricities,  only  an  active  mini 
and  it  is  only  when  a  propensity  is  manifested  1 
such  principles  as  give  a  sanction  to  immoralit 
that  they  sliow  something  wrong  at  heart.    0 
little  poem  of  Henry's  Remains,  which  was  writ! 
in  this  unsettled  state  of  mind,  exhibits  much 
his  character,  and  can  excite  no  feelings  towari 
him,  but  such  as  are  favorable. 

MY  OWN  CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED  (DURING  ILLNESS)  TO  A  YOUXG  LADYi 

Dear  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
To  give  you  a  sketch— ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess. 
And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress; 
But  however,  here  goes,  and,  as  sure  as  a  gun, 
I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun. 
For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her, 
She  wont  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 
Come,  come,  'twill  not  do!  put  that  purling  brow  dow 
You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frown.     , 
Well,  first,  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction. 
That  my  breast  is  the  chaos  of  all  contradiction  ; 
Relisious— deistic,— now  loyal  and  warm, 
Tiien  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform ; 
This  moment  a  fop,  that,  sententious  as  Titus; 
Domocritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus; 
Now  laughing  and  pleased,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle 
Then  vex'd  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle ; 

428 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


xm 


biovf  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking:  and  gay, 
To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 

m  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child, 
teut  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild : 
.  'A.S  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute ; 
Then  as  for  politeness— oh !  dear — Im  a  brute! 
[  show  no  respjct  where  I  never  can  feel  it ; 
\nd  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it; 
.\nil  so  in  the  suit,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
['ve  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

.  And  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
,  iPhat  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashion'd  like  steel, 
I  ilt  can  love  (can  it  not  ?) — it  can  hate,  I  am  sure  ; 
(And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be  poor. 
(For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds  ; 
llf  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it 's  the  seeds: 
[And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

tWell,  I  've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss ; 
I  jThen  as  to  my  virtues  I'm  quite  at  a  loss ! 
■  ll  think  Im  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say, 
:  But  in  process  of  time  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 

ri'm  ?i general  lover,  if  that 's  commendation, 

lAnd  yet  can't  withstand  you  know  tchose  fascination. 

;But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices, 


In  fishing  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices  ; 
'So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  it, 
I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 


'You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
jAnd  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried, 
[Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
!  Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  \^ay. 
■  I  am  upright,  I  hope  ;  I  am  downright,  I  'm  clear! 
f  And  I  think  ray  worst  foe  must  allow  I'm  sincere; 
i  And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 
;  'Tis  now  when  I  swear *  * 


At  this  time,  when  Henry  doubted  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  and  professed  a  careless  indifference 
concerning  it  which  he  was  far  from  feeling,  it 
happened  that  one  of  his  earliest  and  most  inti- 
mate friends,  ]\Ir.  Almond,  was  accidentally  pres- 
ent at  a  death-bed,  and  was  so  struck  with  what 
he  then  saw  of  the  power  and  influence,  and  in- 
estimable value  of  religion,  that  he  formed  a  firm 
determination  to  renounce  all  such  pursuits  as 
were  not  strictly  compatible  with  it.  That  he 
might  not  be  shaken  in  this  resolution,  he  with- 
drew from  the  society  of  all  those  persons  whose 
ridicule  or  censure  he  feared ;  and  was  particu- 
larly careful  to  avoid  Henry,  of  whose  raillery 
he  stood  most  in  dread.  He  anxiously  shunned 
him,  therefore ;  till  Henry,  who  would  not  suffer 
an  intimacy  of  long  standing  to  be  broken  off  he 
knew  not  wliy,  called  upon  his  friend,  and  desired 
to  know  the  cause  of  this  unaccountable  conduct 
towards  himself  and  their  common  acquaintance. 

Mr.  Almond,  who  had  received  him  with  trem- 
bling and  reluctance,  replied  to  this  expostulation, 
that  a  total  change  had  been  effected  in  his  reli 
gious  views,  and  that  he  was  prepared  to  defend 


his  opinions  and  conduct,  if  Henry  would  allow 
the  Bible  to  be  the  word  of  truth  and  the  standard 
of  appeal.  Upon  this  Henry  exclaimed  in  a  tone 
of  strong  emotion  : — "  Good  God,  you  surely  re- 
gard me  in  a  worse  light  than  I  deserve  !" — His 
friend  proceeded  to  say,  that  wliat  he  had  said 
was  from  a  conviction  that  they  had  no  common 
ground  on  which  to  contend,  Henry  having  more 
than  once  suggested,  that  the  book  of  Isaiah  was 
an  epic,  and  that  of  Job  a  dramatic,  poem.  He 
then  stated  what  the  change  was  which  had  taken 
place  in  his  own  views  and  intentions,  and  the 
motives  for  his  present  conduct.  From  the  man- 
ner in  which  Henry  listened,  it  became  evident 
that  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease,  and  that  he  was  no- 
ways satisfied  with  himself.  His  friend,  there- 
fore, who  had  expected  to  be  assailed  in  a  tone 
of  triumphant  superiority  by  one  in  the  pride 
and  youthful  confidence  of  great  intellectual 
powers,  and,  as  yet,  ignorant  of  his  own  igno- 
rance, found  himself  unexpectedly  called  upon 
to  act  the  monitor ;  and,  putting  into  his  hands 
Scott's  "  Force  of  Truth,"  which  was  lying  on 
the  table,  entreated  him  to  take  it  with  him,  and 
peruse  it  at  his  leisure. 

The  book  produced  little  effect,  and  was  return- 
ed with  disapprobation.  Men  differ  as  much  in 
mind  as  in  countenance  :  some  are  to  be  awaken- 
ed by  passionate  exhortation,  or  vehement  re- 
proof,  appealing  to  their  fears  and  exciting  their 
imagination ;  others  yield  to  force  of  argument, 
or,  upon  slow  inquiry,  to  the  accumulation  of 
historical  testimony  and  moral  proofs ;  there  are 
others,  in  whom  the  innate  principle  of  ovu-  na- 
ture retains  more  of  its  original  strength,  and 
these  are  led  by  their  inward  monitor  into  'ths 
way  of  peace.  Henry  was  of  this  class.  His  in- 
tellect might  have  been  on  the  watch  to  detect  a 
flaw  in  evidence,  a  defective  argument,  or  an 
illogical  inference ;  but,  in  his  heart,  he  felt  that 
there  is  no  happiness,  no  rest,  without  religion ; 
and  in  him  who  becomes  willing  to  believe,  the 
root  of  infidelity  is  destroyed.  Mr.  Almond  was 
about  to  enter  at  Cambridge  :  on  the  evening  be- 
fore his  departure  for  the  University,  Henry  re- 
quested that  he  would  accompany  him  to  the 
little  room,  which  was  called  his  study.  "  We 
had  no  sooner  entered,"  says  Mr.  Almond,  "than 
he  burst  into  tears,  and  declared  that  his  anguish 
of  mind  was  insupportable.  He  entreated  that  I 
would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  him  ;  and  most 
cordially  were  our  tears  and  supplications  mingled 
at  that  interesting  moment.  When  I  took  my 
leave,  he  exclaimed  : — '  What  must  I  do? — You 
are  the  only  friend  to  whom  I  can  apply  in  this 
agonizing  state,  and  you  arc  about  to  leave  mo 
My  literary  associates  are  all  inclined  to  deism. 
I  have  no  one  with  whom  I  can  communicate  I" 

429 


XIV 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


A  new  pursuit  was  thus  opened  to  him,  and  he 
engaged  in  it  witli  his  wonted  ardor.  "  It  was 
a  constant  feature  in  his  mind,"  says  Mr.  Pigott, 
"  to  persevere  in  the  pursuit  of  what  he  decrr  ed 
noble  and  important.  Religion,  in  which  he  now 
appeared  to  himself  not  yet  to  have  taken  a  step 
engaged  ail  his  anxiety,  as  of  all  concerns  the  most 
important.  He  could  not  rest  satisfied  till  he  had 
formed  his  principles  upon  the  basis  of  Christi- 
anity, and  till  he  had  begun  in  earnest  to  think  and 
act  agreeably  to  its  pure  and  heavenly  precepts. 
His  mind  loved  to  make  distant  excursions  into 
the  future  and  remote  consequences  of  things. 
He  no  longer  limited  his  views  to  the  narrow  con- 
fines of  earthly  existence  ;  he  was  not  happy  till 
he  had  learnt  to  rest  and  expatiate  in  a  world  to 
come.  What  he  said  to  me  when  we  became  in- 
timate is  worthy  of  observation:  that,  he  said, 
which  first  made  him  dissatisfied  with  the  creed 
he  had  adopted,  and  the  standard  of  practice 
which  he  had  set  up  for  himself,  was  the  purity 
of  mind  which  he  perceived  was  everywhere  in- 
culcated in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  required  of 
every  one  who  would  become  a  successful  candi- 
date for  future  blessedness.  He  had  supposed  that 
morality  of  conduct  was  all  the  purity  required  ; 
but  when  he  observed  that  purity  of  the  very 
thoughts  and  intentions  of  the  soul  also  was  requi- 
site, he  was  convinced  of  his  deficiencies,  and 
could  find  no  comfort  to  his  penitence  but  in  the 
atonement  made  for  human  frailty  by  the  Re- 
deemer of  mankind  ;  and  no  strength  adequate  to 
his  weakness,  and  sufficient  for  resisting  evil,  but 
the  aid  of  God's  spirit,  promised  to  those  who  seek 
them  from  above  in  the  sincerity  of  earnest 
prayer." 

From  the  moment  when  he  had  fully  contracted 
these  opinions,  he  was  resolved  upon  devoting  his 
life  to  the  promulgation  of  them ;  and  therefore 
to  leave  the  law,  and,  if  possible,  place  himself 
at  one  of  the  universities.  Every  argument  was 
used  by  his  friends  to  dissuade  him  from  his  pur- 
pose, but  to  no  effect ;  his  mind  was  unalterably 
fixed,  and  great  and  numerous  as  the  obstacles 
were,  he  was  determined  to  surmount  them  all. 
He  had  now  served  the  better  half  of  the  term 
for  which  he  was  articled :  his  entrance  and  con- 
tinuance  in  the  profession  had  been  a  great  ex- 
panse to  his  family ;  and  to  give  up  this  lucra- 
tive profession,  in  the  study  of  which  he  had 
advanced  so  far,  and  situated  as  he  was,  for  one 
wherein  there  was  so  little  prospect  of  his  ob- 
taining even  a  decent  competency,  appeared  to 
them  the  height  of  folly  or  of  madness.  This  de- 
termination cost  his  poor  mother  many  tears ; 
but  determined  he  was,  and  that  by  the  best  and 
purest  motives.  Without  ambition  he  could  not 


have  existed ;  but  his  ambition  now  was  to 
eminently  useful  in  the  ministry. 

It  was  Henry's  fortune  through  his  short  li 
as  he  was  worthy  of  the  kindest  treatment,  alwai 
to  find  it.    His  employers,  Mr.  Coldham  and  ^ 
Enfield,  listened  with  a  friendly  ear  to  his  ph 
and  agreed  to  give  up  the  remainder  of  his  ti; 
though  it  was  now  become  very  valuable  to  th 
as  soon  as  they  should  thiuK  his  prospects  of  | 
ting  through  the  university  were  such  as  he  mij 
reasonably  trust  to ;  but,  till  then,  they  felt  th 
selves  bound,  for  his  own  sake,  to  detain  hi 
Mr.  Dashwood,  a  clergyman,  who  at  that  time 
sided  in  Nottingham,  exerted  himself  in  his 
vor :  he  had  a  friend  at  Queen's  College,  Caj 
bridge,  who  mentioned  him  to  one  of  the  fellw 
of  St  John's,  and  that  gentleman,  on  the  rep 
sentations  made  to  him  of  Henry's  talents 
piety,  spared  no  effort  to  obtain  for  him  an 
equate  support. 

As  soon  as  these  hopes  were  held  out  to  hi 
his  employers  gave  him  a  month's  leave  of 
sence,  for  the  benefit  of  uninterrupted  study,  j 
of  change  of  air,  which  his  health  now  begai 
require.  Instead  of  going  to  the  sea-coast,  as  y 
expected,  he  chose  for  his  retreat  the  village 
Wilford,  which  is  situated  on  the  banks  of  j 
Trent,  and  at  the  foot  of  Clifton  Woods.  Tb 
woods  had  ever  been  his  favorite  place  of  resa 
and  were  the  subject  of  the  longest  poem  in  ) 
little  volume,  from  which,  indeed,  the  volu 
was  named.  He  delighted  to  point  out  to  his  mi 
intimate  friends  the  scenery  of  this  poem :  the  ij 
to  which  he  had  often  forded  when  the  river  m 
not  knee-deep ;  and  the  little  hut  wherein  he  h 
sat  for  hours,  and  sometimes  all  day  long,  readil 
or  writing,  or  dreaming  with  his  eyes  open.  ] 
had  sometimes  wandered  in  these  woods  till  nij 
was  far  advanced,  and  used  to  speak  with  pleasB 
of  having  once  been  overtaken  there  by  a  th 
der-storm  at  midnight,  and  watching  the  ligj 
ning  over  tlie  river  and  the  vale  towards  the  to\* 
In  this  village  his  mother  procured  lodgings 
him,  and  his  place  of  retreat  was  kept  secret,  <• 
cept  from  his  nearest  friends.  Soon  after  the  «. 
piration  of  the  month,  intelligence  arrived  tl 
the  plans  which  had  been  formed  in  his  beh; 
had  entirely  failed.  He  went  immediately  to  J 
mother:  "All  my  hopes,"  said  he,  "of  getting  « 
the  University  are  now  blasted ;  in  prepari 
myself  for  it,  I  have  lost  time  in  my  professio 
I  have  much  ground  to  get  up ;  and  as  I  am  < 
termined  not  to  be  a  mediocre  attorney,  I  mi 
endeavor  to  recover  what  I  have  lost."  The  cc 
sequence  was,  that  he  applied  himself  more  ,■ 
verely  than  ever  to  his  studies.  He  now  allow 
himself  no  time  for  relaxation,  little  for  his  mea 

430 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


XV 


ind  scarcely  any  for  sleep.  He  would  read  till 
>ne,  two,  three  o'clock  in  the  morning;  then 
ihrow  himself  on  the  bed,  and  rise  again  to  his 
vork  at  five,  at  the  call  of  a  larum,  which  he  had 
axed  to  a  Dutch  clock  in  his  chamber.  Many 
lights  he  never  lay  down  at  all.  It  was  in  vain 
hat  his  mother  used  every  possible  means  to  dis- 
suade him  from  this  destructive  application.  In 
his  respect,  and  in  this  only  one,  was  Henry  un- 
lutiful,  and  neither  commands,  nor  tears,  nor  en- 
'.reaties,  could  check  his  desperate  and  deadly 
irdor.  At  one  time  she  went  every  night  into 
lis  room,  to  put  out  his  candle  :  as  soon  as  he 
leard  her  coming  up  stairs,  he  used  to  hide  it  in 
X  cupboard,  throw  himself  into  bed,  and  affect  sleep 
while  she  was  in  the  room ;  then,  when  all  was 
quiet,  rise  again,  and  pursue  his  baneful  studies. 
"The  night,"  says  Henry,  in  one  of  his  letters, 
;"  has  been  everything  to  me  ;  and  did  the  world 
know  how  I  have  been  indebted  to  the  hours  of 
repose,  they  would  not  wonder  that  night-images 
lare,  as  they  judge,  so  ridiculously  predominant  in 
my  verses."  During  some  of  these  midnight  hours 
he  indulged  himself  in  complaining,  but  in  such 
complaints  that  it  is  to  be  wished  more  of  them 
had  been  found  among  his  papers. 

ODE  ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  territies 
The  restless  and  the  bad  : 
'  But  I  recline 

j  Beneath  thy  shrine, 

I  And  round  my  brow,  resign  "d,  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 

j  Though  Fancy  flies  away 

!  Before  thy  hollow  tread, 

I  Yet  Meditation,  in  her  cell, 

1  Hears,  with  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell, 

1  That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 

i  And  though  the  tear 

By  chance  appear, 
Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say.  My  all  was  not  laid  here. 


I  Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

1  Though  from  Hofte's  summit  Inirl'd, 

Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
For  thou  severe  werl  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world : 
To  turn  my  eye 
I  From  vanity. 

And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day! 
A  little  sun— a  little  rain. 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain. 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
*  Man  'soon  disciiss'd) 

Yields  up  his  trust. 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 


Oh,  what  is  beauty's  power? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  coll!  earth  its  silence  break 
To  tell  how  soft,  how  snmoth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
Oor  beauty's  fall ; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  pall. 

The  most  beloved  on  earth 
Not  long  survives  to-day; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet 't  was  sweet,  't  was  passing  sweet. 
But  now  't  is  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  beloved  is  laid. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 

And  volatile  and  fleet. 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill. 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart 
be  still. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me; 
Sad  Monitress!  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
From  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  thy  will  be  done! 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  prob- 
ably in  the  freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  dream  no  more — the  vision  flies  away. 

And  Disappointment  *  *  *  * 

There  fell  my  hopes — I  lost  my  all  in  this. 

My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 

Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  ImjIow; 

Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  woe. 

Plunge  me  in  glooms  *  *  *  * 

His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  habits :  he 
became  pale  and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp 
fit  of  sickness.  On  his  recovery,  he  wrote  the 
following  lines  in  the  church-yard  of  his  favorite 
village. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  WILFORD  CHURCH-YARD  ON 

RECOVERY  FROM  SICKNESS. 

Here  would  I  wish  to  sleep.— This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in; 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  yew  I  would  be  sepulcJired. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot !  The  sultry  sun. 
From  his  meri.iian  height,  endeavors  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  ripplin;;  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.   'Tis  a  nook 
Most  pleasant.   Such  a  one  jx-rchance  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  a  vasraiit  muse  lie  wanton'd. 
Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 

431 


XVI 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


For  I  am  wraried  with  my  summer's  walk  ; 
And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease; 
And  thus,  perchance,  when  lifj's  sad  journey's  o'er, 
My  harassd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 
The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 
Perchince  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 
With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earth-worm 
Of  its  predestined  dues;  no,  I  would  lie 
Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass  o'er-grown. 
Swathed  down  with  oziers,  just  as  sleep  the  cotters. 
Yet  may  not  undistinguished  be  my  grave; 
But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 
Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 
The  good  nun's  benison— no  more  I  ask. 
And,  oh !  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 
From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit, 
Upon  this  little  dim-discover'd  spot, 
The  earth),  thon  will  I  cast  a  glance  below 
On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm  ; 
And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer, 
Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 
In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  woe. 
But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet 't  was  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body. 
Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery. 
And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze! 
Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom. 
And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
Endear'd  to  it  by  time.   And  who  would  lay 
His  body  in  th?  city  burial-place. 
To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  sexton, 
And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant, 
Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust. 
Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp. 
Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness? 
No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 
There  are  the  dead  respected.  Th?  poor  hind, 
Unletter'd  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to  invade 
The  silent  resting-place  of  death.   I  've  seen 
The  labor.T,  returning  from  his  toil. 
Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round. 
And  slowly  spdl  the  rudely  sculptured  rhymes. 
And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 
I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken. 
With  h^ad  uncovered,  his  respectful  manner. 
And  all  thi  honors  which  he  paid  the  grave. 
And  thought  on  cities,  where  even  cemeteries, 
^estrew'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality. 
Are  not  pr  itected  from  the  drunken  insolence 
Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wantiui  havoc. 
Grant,  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close! 
Yet,  if  this  b:i  denied,  where'er  my  "vones 
May  lie — or  in  the  city's  crowdeil  bounds, 
Or  scatter  il  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters. 
Or  left  a  pr;y  on  some  deserted  shore 
To  the  rapacious  cormorant, — yet  still, 
(For  why  slmuM  sober  reason  cast  away 
A  thouirhi  which  soothes  the  soul? — yet  still  my  spirit 
Shall  wiuz  its  way  to  these  my  native  reirjons. 
And  hover  oer  this  spot.    Oh.  then  I  '11  think 
Of  iitn^s  wh''n  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew    . 
In  solemn  r^.mination;  and  will  smile 
With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 

Hi.-5  fiends  are  of  opinion  that  he  never  tho- 
rou'^hlv  recovered  from  the  shock  which  his  con- 


stitution then   sustained.     Many  of  his  poem*' 
indicate  that  he  thought  himself  in   danger  of 
consumption  ;  he  was  not  aware  tliat  he  was  g-en 
erating-  or  fostering  in  himself  another  disease 
little  less  dreadful,  and  which  threatens  intellecl 
as  well  as  life.    At  this  time  youth  was  in  hi;- 
favor,   and   his  hopes,  wliich  were  now  agair 
renewed,  produced  perhaps  a  better  effect  thr.) 
medicine.    Mr.  Dashwood  obtained  for  liim  an  in 
troduction  to  Mr.  Simeon,  of  King's  College,  aiu 
with  this  he  was  induced  to  go  to  Cambridge 
His  friend  Almond,  w^ho  had  recently  entered  at 
Trinity  College,  had  already  endeavored  to  in- 
terest  in  his  behalf  some  persons  who  might  be 
able  to  assist  him  in  the  great  object  of  his  desire 
that  of  passing  through  the  University,  and  quali. 
fying  himself  for  holy  orders.    It  is  neither  U 
be  wondered  at,  nor  censured,  that  his  represent 
ations,  where  he  had  an  opportunity  of  making 
them,  were  for  the  most  part  coldly  received 
They  who  have  been  most  conversant  with  youtl 
best  understand  how  little  the  promises  of  earl} 
genius  are  to  be  relied  upon :  it  is  among  th( 
mortifying  truths  which  we  learn  from  experience 
and  no  common  spirit  of  benevolence  is  rcquire(( 
to  overcome  the  chilling  effect  of  repeated  disapi 
pointments.    He  found,  however,  encouragemea' 
from  two  persons,  whose  names  have  since  beconn| 
well  known.  Mr.  Dealtry,  then  one  of  tlie  mathet 
matical  lecturers  at  Trinity,  w^as  one.  Tliis  gen; 
tleman,  whom  the  love  of  the  abstract  sciences  ha«; 
not  rendered  intolerant  of  other  pursuits  rnon* 
congenial  to  youthful  imaginations,  consented  t<; 
look  at  Henry's  poem  of  "Tnne,"  a  manuscript  o  '• 
which  was  in  Almond's  possession.  The  perusa" 
interested  him  greatly:  he  entered  with  his  wontei 
benignity  into  the  concerns  of  the  author  :  ani 
would  gladly  have  befriended  him,  if  the  requisit 
assistance  had  not  just  at  that  time  been  secure^ 
from  otiier  quarters. 

The  other  person  in  whom  Mr.  Almond  excite 
an  interest  for  his  friend  was  Henry  Martyn,  wl; 
has  since  sacrificed  his  life  in  the  missionary  ser 
vice :  he  was  then  only  a  few  years  older  tha 
Henry ;  equally  ardent,  equally  devout,  equal!' 
enthusiastic.  He  heard  with  emotion  of  thi 
kindred  spirit ;  read  some  of  his  letters,  and  un 
dertook  to  enter  his  name  upon  the  boards  of  S 
John's,  (of  which  college  he  \vas  a  fellow),  sayin 
that  a  friend  in  London,  whose  name  he  w^as  no 
at  liberty  to  comnmnicate,  had  empowered  hii 
to  assist  any  deserving  young  man  with  tliirt 
pounds  a  year  during  his  stay  at  the  Universit} 
To  insure  success,  one  of  Henry's  letters  wa 
transmitted  to  this  unknown  friend  ;  and  Marty 
was  not  a  little  surprised  and  grieved,  to  learn  i 
re])ly,  that  a  passage  in  that  letter  seemed  t 
render  it  doubtful  whether  the   writer  were 

432 


LIFE  OF  KENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


xvii 


ZJhurchman  or  a  Dissenter  ;  and,  tlierefore,  occa- 
;ioned  a  demur  as  to  the  propriety  of  assisting 
lim.  Just  at  this  time  Henry  arrived  at  Cambridge, 
tvith  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Simeon.  That  gen- 
leman,  being  in  correspondence  with  Martyn's 
riend  in  London,  expressed  displeasure  at  his 
Lfrival ;  but  the  first  interview  removed  all  ob- 
lection.  Mr.  Simeon,  from  Mr.  Dashwood's  recom- 
inendation,  and  from  vv'hat  he  saw  of  his  prin- 
ciples and  talents,  promised  to  procure  for  him  a 
dzarship  at  St.  John's,  and,  with  the  additional 
lid  of  a  friend,  to  supply  him  with  30Z,  annually, 
.iis  brother  Neville  promised  twenty ;  and  his 
inother,  it  was  hoped,  would  be  able  to  allow 
ifteen  or  twenty  more.  With  this,  it  was  thought, 
le  could  go  through  college.  If  this  prospect  had 
lot  been  opened  to  him,  he  would  probably  have 
,urned  his  thoughts  towards  the  orthodox  Dis- 
.jenters. 

I    On  his  return  to  Nottingham,  the  Rev. 

[Robinson  of  Leicester,  and  some  other  friends,  ad- 
ii'ised  him  to  apply  to  the  EUand  Society  for  assist- 
lince,  conceiving  that  it  would  be  less  oppressive 
jto  his  feelings  to  be  dependent  on  a  Society  in- 
istituted  for  the  express  purpose  of  training  up  such 
young  men  as  himself  (that  is,  such  in  circum- 
stances and  opinions)  for  the  ministry,  than  on  the 
bounty  of  an  individual.  In  consequence  of  this 
advice  he  went  to  Elland  at  the  next  m.eeting  of 
tlie  Society,  a  stranger  there,  and  without  one 
friend  among  the  members.  He  was  examined, 
for  several  hours,  by  about  five-and-tv»^enty  clergy- 
men, as  to  his  religious  views  and  sentiments, 
his  theological  knowledge,  and  his  classical  attain- 
ments. In  the  course  of  the  inquiry  it  appeared 
that  he  had  published  a  volume  of  poems  :  their 
questions  now  began  to  be  very  unpleasantly 
linquisitive  concerning  the  nature  of  these  poems, 
land  he  was  assailed  by  queries  from  all  quarters. 
It  was  well  for  Henry  that  they  did  not  think  of 
:  referring  to  the  Monthly  Review  for  authority. 
My  letter  to  him  happened  to  be  in  his  pocket; 
he  luckily  recollected  this,  and  produced  it  as  a 
; testimony  in  his  favor.  They  did  me  the  honor 
'to  say  that  it  was  quite  sufficient,  and  pursued 
this  part  of  their  inquiry  no  farther.  Before  he 
left  Elland,  he  was  given  to  understand,  that  they 
.  were  well  satisfied  with  his  theological  knowledge; 
that  they  thought  his  classical  proficiency  pro- 
digious for  his  age,  and  that  they  had  placed  him 
on  their  books.  He  returned  little  pleased  with 
his  journey.  His  friends  had  been  mistaken  :  the 
bounty  of  an  individual  calls  fortli  a  sense  of  kind- 
ness  as  well  as  of  dependence  ;  that  of  a  Society 
has  the  virtue  of  charity,  perhaps,  but  it  wants 
the  grace.   He  now  wrote  to  Mr.  Simeon,  stating 


that  geiuleman  oltliged  liim  to  decline  the  assist- 
ance  of  tlie  Society,  wiiich  he  very  willingly  did 
This  being  finally  arranged,  he  quitted  his  cm- 
ployers  in  October,  1804.  How  much  he  had  con- 
ducted  himself  to  their  satisfaction,  will  appear 
by  this  testimony  of  IVIr.  Enfield,  to  his  diligence 
and  uniform  worth.  "  I  have  great  pleasure," 
says  this  gentleman,  "in  paying  the  tribute  to 
his  memory,  of  expressing  the  knowledge  wliich 
was  afforded  me  during  the  period  of  Jiis  con- 
nexion  with  Mr.  Coldham  and  myself,  of  his  dili- 
gent application,  his  ardor  for  study,  and  his 
virtuous  and  amiable  disposition.  He  very  soon 
discovered  an  unusual  aptness  in  comprehending 
the  routine  of  business,  and  great  ability  and  ra- 
pidity in  the  execution  of  everything  wliich  was 
intrusted  to  him.  His  diligence  and  punctual  at- 
tention svere  unremitted,  and  his  services  became 
extremely  valuable,  a  considerable  time  before  he 
left  us.  He  seemed  to  me  to  have  no  relish  for 
the  ordinary  pleasures  and  dissipations  of  young 
men  ;  his  mind  was  perpetually  employed,  either 
in  the  business  of  his  profession,  or  in  private 
study.  With  his  fondness  for  literature  we  were 
well  acquainted,  but  had  no  reason  to  ofter  any 
check  to  it,  for  he  never  permitted  the  indul- 
gence  of  his  literary  pursuits  to  interfere  with  the 
engagements  of  business.  The  difficulty  of  hear- 
ing, under  which  he  labored,  was  distressing  to 
him  in  tlie  practice  of  his  profession,  and  was,  I 
think,  an  inducement,  in  co-operation  with  his 
other  inclinations,  for  his  resolving  to  relinquish 
the  law.  I  can,  with  truth,  assert,  that  his  deter- 
mination was  matter  of  serious  regret  to  my 
partner  and  myself." 

I  may  here  add,  as  at  the  same  time  showing 
Henry's  aspirations  after  fame  and  the  principles 
by  which  he  had  learnt  to  regulate  his  ambition, 
that  on  the  cover  of  one  of  his  commonplace  books 
he  had  written  these  mottoes  : 

AAAA  TAP  ESTIN  MOYSA  KAI  HMIN. 

EuRiP.  Jilede.a.  lO'Jl. 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  iioble  minds), 
To  scorn  delight  and  live  laborious  days. 

Milton's  Lycidas,  70. 

Under  these  lines  was  placed  a  reference  to  the 
following  extract  (in  another  page),  from  Barrow. 
"The  Holy  Scripture  does  not  teach  us  to  slight 
honor  ;  but  rather,  in  its  fi.t  order  and  just  meas- 
ure,  to  love  and  prove  it.  It  directs  us  not  to 
make  a  regard  thereto  our  chief  principle  ;  not  to 
propound  it  as  our  main  end  of  action.  It  charges 
us,  to  bear  contentedly  the  want  or  loss  thereof, 
as  of  other  temporal  goods  ;  yea,  in  some  cases, 
for  conscience-sake,  or  for  God's  service  (that  is. 


what  he  had  done,  and  that  the  beneficence  of  his  I  for  a  good  incomparably  better),  it  obliges  us 
unknown  friends  was  no  longer  necessary:  but,  willing)    to  prostitute  and  sacrifice  it,  choosing 
55  2  M  ^'^^ 


XVlll 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


rather  to  be  infamous  than  impious;  in  disgrace 
with  man,  ratlicr  than  in  disfavor  with  God.  It, 
in  fine,  commands  us  to  seek  and  embrace  it  only 
in  subordination,  and  with  final  reference  to  God's 
honor." 

Mr.  Simeon  had  advised  him  to  degrade  for  a 
year,  and  place  himself,  during  that  time,  under 
some  scholar.    He  went  accordingly  to  the  Rev. 

Grainger,  of  V/interingham,  in  Lincolnshire, 

and  there,  notwithstanding  all  the  entreaties  of 
his  friends,  pursuing  the  same  unrelenting  course 
of  study,  a  second  illness  was  the  consequence. 
When  he  was  recovering,  he  was  prevailed  upon 
to  relax,  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  drink  wine : 
these  latter  remedies  he  could  not  long  afford, 
and  he  would  not  allow  himself  time  for  relaxa- 
tion when  he  did  not  feel  its  immediate  necessity. 
He  frequently,  at  this  time,  studied  fourteen  hours 
a-day:  the  progress  which  he  made  in  twelve 
months  was  indeed  astonishing.  When  he  went 
to  Cambridge,  he  was  immediately  as  much  dis- 
tinguished for  his  classical  knowledge  as  his 
genius  :  but  the  seeds  of  death  were  in  him,  and 
the  place  to  which  he  had  so  long  looked  on  with 
hope,  served  unhappily  as  a  hot-house  to  ripen 
them.' 

During  his  first  term  one  of  the  university- 
scholarships  became  vacant,  and  Henry,  young  as 
he  was  in  college,  and  almost  self-taught,  was  ad- 
vised, by  those  who  were  best  able  to  estimate 
his  chance  of  success,  to  offer  himself  as  a  candi- 
date for  it.  He  passed  the  whole  time  in  prepar- 
ing himself  for  this,  reading  for  college  subjects 
in  bed,  in  his  walks,  or,  as  he  says,  where,  when, 
and  how  he  could,  never  having  a  moment  to 
spare,  and  often  going  to  his  tutor  without  having 
read  at  all.  His  strength  sunk  under  this,  and 
though  he  had  declared  himself  a  candidate,  he 
was  compelled  to  decline :  but  this  was  not  the 
only  misfortune.  The  general  college-examina- 
tion came  on  !  he  was  utterly  unprepared  to  meet 
it,  and  believed  that  a  failure  here  would  have 
ruined  his  prospects  for  ever.  He  had  only  about 
a  fortnight  to  read  what  other  men  had  been  the 
whole  term  reading.  Once  more  he  exerted  him- 
self beyond  what  his  shattered  health  could  bear: 
the  disorder  returned ;  and  he  went  to  his  tutor. 


1  During  his  residence  in  my  family,  says  Mr.  Grainger, 
his  cnruluct  was  highly  becoming,  and  suitable  to  a  Chris- 
tian pi  ofession.  He  was  mild  and  inoffensive,  modest,  un- 
as.suniing,  and  aft'cctionate.  lie  attended,  with  great 
rhcerfulness,  a  Sunday  School  which  I  was  endeavoring 
to  establish  in  the  village  ;  and  was  at  considerable  pains 
in  the  instruction  of  the  children  :  and  I  have  repr^atedly 
observed,  that  he  was  most  pleased,  and  most  editied,  with 
such  of  my  sermons  and  addresses  to  my  jjeople  as  were 
most  close,  plain,  and  familiar.  When  we  parted,  we 
p;irted  with  mutual  rt'irret ;  and  by  us  liis  name  will  long 
b(i  remembered  with  affection  and  delight. 


Mr.  Catton,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  told  hill) 
that  he  could  not  go  into  the  hall  to  be  examinoii' 
Mr.  Catton,  however,  thought  his  success  here  o) 
so  much  importance,  that  he  exhorted  him,  witl 
all  possible  earnestness,  to  hold  out  the  six  dayr 
of  the  examination.  Strong  medicines  were  give* 
him,  to  enable  him  to  support  it ;  and  he  was  pro 
nounced  the  first  man  of  his  year.  But  life  wai 
the  price  which  he  was  to  pay  for  such  honorn 
as  this ;  and  Henry  is  not  the  first  young  man  ti 
w^hora  such  honors  have  proved  fatal.  He  sail 
to  his  most  intimate  friend,  almost  the  last  tinu 
he  saw  him,  that  were  he  to  paint  a  picture  oj 
Fame  crowning  a  distinguished  under-graduatei 
after  the  Senate-house  examination,  he  would  r« 
present  her  as  concealing  a  death's-head  under  t 
mask  of  beauty. 

When  this  was  over  he  went  to  London.  Lon 
don  was  a  new  scene  of  excitement, — and  what  hit 
mind  required  was  tranquillity  and  rest.  Befon 
he  left  college,  he  had  become  anxious  concens 
ing  his  expenses,  fearing  that  they  exceeded  hi; 
means.  Mr.  Catton  perceived  this,  and  twice  call 
ed  him  to  his  rooms,  to  assure  him  of  every  ne 
cessary  stl^port,  and  every  encouragement,  afli 
to  give  him  every  hope.  This  kindness  relieved 
his  spirits  of  a  heavy  weight,  and  on  his  returl 
he  relaxed  a  little  from  his  studies,  but  it  was  onlj 
a  little.  I  found  among  his  papers  the  day  thtt 
planned  out : — "  Rise  .at  half  past  five.  Devo 
tions  and  walk  till  seven.  Chapel  and  breakfaS 
till  eight.  Study  and  lectures  till  one.  Four  an« 
a  half  clear  reading.  Walk,  etc.  and  dinner,  am 
AVollaston,  and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine,  read 
ing — three  hours.  Nine  to  ten,  devotions.  Be( 
at  ten." 

Ainong  his  latest  writings  are  these  resolutions! 
— "  I  will  never  be  in  bed  after  six. 
I  will  not  drink  tea  out  above  once  a  week,  except 

ing  on  Sundays,  unless  there  appear  some  gooc 

reason  for  so  doing. 
I  will  never  pass  a  day  without  reading  some  por 

tion  of  the  Scriptures. 
I  will  labor  diligently  in  my  mathematical  stu 

dies,  because  I  half  suspect  myself  of  a  dislib 

to  them. 
I  will  walk  two  hours  a  day,  upon  tlie  averag< 

of  every  week. 

Sit  mihi  gratia  addita  ad  Jicbc  facienday 

About  this  time,  judging  by  the  handv.-riting 
he  wrote  down  tlie  following  admonitory  sen . 
tences,  which,  as  the  paper  on  which  they  ar( 
written  is  folded  into  the  shape  of  a  very  smal 
book,  it  is  probable  he  carried  about  with  him  at, 
a  manual.  '  I 

"  1.  Death  and  judgment  are  near  at  hand. 

2.  Though  thy  bodily  part  be  now  in  liealtl 

434 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


XlX 


and  ease,  the  dews  of  death  will  soon  sit  upon  thj  j  himself  in  tJie  following  year,  being  again  pro- 
forehead,  nounced  first  at  the  great  college-examination, 
I  3.  That  which  seems  so  sweet  and  desirable  to  and  also  one  of  the  three  best  theme-writers  be- 
ithee  now,  will,  if  yielded  to,  become  bitterness 'tween  whom  the  examiners  could  not  decide.  Tiie 
lof  soul  to  thee  all  thy  life  after.  |  college  offered  him,  at  their  expense,  a  private 
4.  When  the  waters  are  come  over  thy  soul,  and  tutor  in  mathematics  during  tiie  long  vacation ; 


iwrhen,  in  the  midst  of  much  bodily  anguish,  thou 
distuiguishest  the  dim  shores  of  Eternity  before 
thee,  what  wouldest  thou  not  give  to  be  lighter  by 
[this  one  sin  ? 

'  5.  God  has  long  withheld  his  arm;  what  if  his 
forbearance  be  now  at  an  end  ?  Canst  thou  not 
contemplate  these  things  with  the  eyes  of  death? 
A_rt  thou  not  a  dying  man,  dying  every  day,  every 
hour  ? 

6.  Is  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  shrink  from  the 
summons  when  it  conies "! — to  turn  with  horror 
and  despair  from  the  future  being  ?  Think  what 
^trains  of  joy  and  tranquillity  fall  on  the  ear  of 


and  Mr.Catton,  by  procuring  for  him  exhibitions 
to  the  amount  of  66/.  per  annum,  enabled  him  to 
give  up  the  pecuniary  assistance  which  he  liad 
received  from  I\Ir.  Simeon  and  other  friends.  This 
intention  he  had  expressed  in  a  letter  written 
twelve  months  before  his  death.  "  With  regard 
to  my  colloge-expenses  (he  says),  I  have  the  plea- 
sure  to  inform  you,  that  I  shall  be  obliged,  in 
strict  rectitude,  to  waive  the  offers  of  many  of  my 
friends.  I  shall  not  even  need  the  sum  j\Ir.  Si- 
meon mentioned  after  the  first  year ;  and  it  is  not 
impossible  that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without  any 
assistance  at  all,   I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  at  the 


the  saint  who  is  just  swooning  into  the  arms  of  thought  of  this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of 
Redeemer :  what  fearful  shapes,  and  dreadful '.  independence,  but  because  I  shall  then  give  a 
res  of  a  disturbed  conscience,  surround  the  more  unbiassed  testimony  to  the  truth,  than  if  I 

were  supposed  to  be  bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of  ob- 
ligation or  gratitude.  I  sliall  always  feel  as  much 
7.  Oh,  my  soul,  if  thou  art  yet  ignorant  of!  indebted  for  intended  as  for  actually  afforded  as- 
tlie  enormity  of  sin,  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  Man   sistance  ;  and  though  I  should  never  think  a  sense 
iwho  is  bleeding  to  death  on  the  cross  !    See  how ,  of  thankfulness  an  oppressive  burden,  yet  I  shall 


sinner's  bed,  when  the  last  twig  which  he  grasped 
fails  him,  and  the  gulf  yawns  to  receive  him ! 


{the  blood,  from  his  pierced  hands,  trickles  down 
'his  arms,  and  the  more  copious  streams  from  his 
;feet  run  on  the  accursed  tree,  and  stain  the  grass 
fwith  purple  I  Behold  his  features,  though  scarcely 
lanimated  with  a  few  remaining  sparks  of  life,  yet 
jhow  full  of  love,  pity,  and  tranquillity!  A  tear  is 
•'trickling  down  his  cheek,  and  his  lip  quivers. — 
\H.e  is  praying  for  his  murderers  !  O,  my  soul  I  it 
lis  thy  Redeemer — it  is  thy  God  !  And  this,  too, 
,for  Sin — for  Sin  !  and  wilt  thou  ever  again  sub- 
imit  to  its  yoke  ? 

I  8.  Remember  that  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Spirit 
jof  God  is  ready  to  save  thee  from  transgression. 
|It  is  always  at  hand :  thou  canst  not  sin  without 
'wilfully  rejecting  its  aid. 

!  9.  And  is  there  real  pleasure  in  sin?  Thou 
(knowest  there  is  not.  But  there  is  pleasure,  pure 
and  exquisite  pleasure,  in  holiness.  The  Holy 
Ghost  can  make  the  paths  of  religion  and  virtue, 
hard  as  they  seem,  and  thorny,  ways  of  pleasant- 
ness and  peace,  where,  though  there  be  thorns, 
jet  are  there  also  roses ;  and  where  all  the  wounds 
which  we  suffer  in  the  flesh,  Irom  the  hardness 
of  the  journey,  are  so  healed  by  the  balm  of  the 
Spirit,  that  they  rather  give  joy  than  pain." 

The  exercise  which  Henry  took  was  no  relaxa- 
tion :  he  still  continued  the  habit  of  studying 
while  he  walked  ;  and  in  this  manner,  while  he 
was  at  Cambridge,  committed  to  memory  a  whole 
tragedy  of  Euripides.    Twice  he  distinguished 


be  happy  to  evince  it,  when,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  the  obligation  to  it  has  been  discharged." 
Never,  perhaps,  had  any  young  man,  in  so  short 
a  time,  excited  such  expectations  :  every  univer- 
sity-honor was  thought  to  be  within  his  reach ; 
he  was  set  down  as  a  medallist,  and  expected  to 
take  a  senior  wrangler's  degree  :  but  these  expec- 
tations were  poison  to  him ;  they  goaded  him  to 
fresh  exertions  when  his  strength  was  spent.  His 
situation  became  truly  miserable  :  to  his  brother, 
and  to  his  mother,  he  wrote  always  that  lie  had 
relaxed  in  his  studies,  and  that  he  was  better  ;  al- 
ways holding  out  to  them  his  hopes,  and  liis  good 
fortune ;  but  to  the  most  intimate  of  his  friends 
(3Ir.  B.  Maddock),  his  letters  told  a  ditTerent  tale  : 
to  him  he  complained  of  dreadful  palpitations — 
of  nights  of  sleeplessness  and  horror,  and  of  spirits 
depressed  to  the  very  depth  of  wretchedness,  so 
that  he  went  from  one  acquaintance  to  another, 
imploring  society,  even  as  a  starving  beggar  en- 
treats for  food.    During  the  course  of  this  sum- 
mer, it  was  expected  that  the  mastership  of  the 
free-school  at  Nottingham  would  shortly  become 
vacant.  A  relation  of  his  family  was  at  that  time 
mayor  of  the  town  ;  he  suggested  to  them  what 
an  advantageous  situation  it  would  be  for  Henry, 
and  offered  to  secure  for  him  the  necessary  inter- 
est.   But  though  the  salary  and  emoluments  aro 
estimated  at  from  4  to  6001.  per  annum,  Henry 
declined  the  offer ;  because,  had  he  accepted  it, 

435 


XX 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


it  would  have  frustrated  his  intentions  with  re- 
spect to  tlie  ministry.  This  was  certainly  no  com- 
mon act  of  forbearance  in  one  so  situated  as  to 
fortune,  especially  as  the  liope  which  he  had  mo^L 
at  heart,  was  that  of  being  enabled  to  assist  his 
family,  and  in  some  degree  requite  the  care  and 
anxiety  of  his  father  and  mother,  by  making  them 
comfortable  in  their  declining  years. 

The  indulgence  shown  him  by  his  college,  in 
providing  him  a  tutor  during  the  long  vacation, 
was  peculiarly  unfortunate.    His  only  chance  of 
life  was  from  relaxation,  and  home  was  the  only 
place  where  he  would  have  relaxed  to  any  pur- 
pose. Before  this  time  he  had  seemed  to  be  gaining 
strength  ;  it  failed  as  the  year  advanced  :  he  went 
once   more  to  London  to  recruit  himself, — the 
worst  place  to  which  he  could  have  gone  :  the 
variety  of  stimulating  objects  there  hurried  and 
agitated  him  ;  and  when  he  returned  to  college,  j 
he  was  so  completely  ill,  that  no  power  of  medi- 
cine could  save  him.    His  mind  was  worn  out ; 
and  it  was  the  opinion  of  his  medical  attendants, ', 
that  if  he  had  recovered,  his  intellect  would  have  i 
been  affected.    His  brother  Neville  was  just  at  j 
this  time  to  have  visited  him.  On  his  first  seizure, 
Henry  found  himself  too  ill  to  receive  him,  and 
wrote  to  say  so :  he   added,  with  that  anxious 
tenderness  towards  the  feelings  of  a  most  affec- 
tionate   family,  which  always   appeared  in  his 
letters,  that  he  thought  himself  recovering;  but 
his  disorder  increased  so  rapidly,  that  this  letter  j 
was  never  sent ;  it  was  found  in  his  pocket  after 
h"is  decease.  One  of  his  friends  wrote  to  acquaint ' 
Neville  with  his  danger  :  he  hastened  down  ;  but ; 
Henry  was  delirious  when  he  arrived.   He  knew ' 
him  only  for  a  few  moments ;  the  next  day,  sunk ' 
into  a  state  of  stupor ;  and  on  Sunday,  October 
19th,  1806,  it  pleased  God  to  remove  him  to  a 
better  world,  and  a  higher  state  of  existence. 
*  *  *  * 

The  Avill  w^hich  I  had  manifested  to  serve 
Henry,  he  had  accepted  as  the  deed,  and  had 
expressed  himself  upon  the  subject  in  terms 
which  it  would  have  humbled  me  to  read,  at  any 
other  time  than  when  I  was  performing  the  last 
service  to  his  memory.  On  his  decease,  Mr.  B. 
Maddock  addressed  a  letter  to  me,  informing  me 
of  the  event,  as  one  who  had  professed  an  interest 
in  his  friend's  fortunes.  I  inquired,  in  my  reply, 
if  there  was  any  intention  of  publishing  what  he 
might  have  left,  and  if  I  could  be  of  any  assist- 
ance in  the  publication  :  this  led  to  a  correspond- 
ence witli  his  excellent  brother,  and  the  whole  of 
his  papers  were  consigned  into  my  hands,  with  as 
many  of  his  letters  as  couid  be  collected. 

These  papers  (exclusive  of  the  correspondence) 
filled  a  box  cf  considerable  size.   Mr.  Coleridge 


was  present  when  I  opened  llif;iri,  and  was,  j 
well  as  myself,  equally  aflectcd  and  astonished  i 
the  proofs  of  industry  which  they  displayed.  Some 
of  them  had  been  written  before  his  hand  wajf 
formed,  probably  before  he  was  thirteen.  Thero 
were  papers  upon  law,  upon  electricity,  upon 
chemistry,  upon  the  Latin  and  Greek  Language!^ 
from  their  rudiments  to  the  liigher  branches  of 
critical  study,  upon  history,  chronology,  divinity, 
the  fathers,  etc.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  escaped 
him.  His  poems  were  numerous:  among  the 
earliest  was  a  sonnet  addressed  to  myself,  long; 
before  the  little  intercourse  whicli  had  subsisted' 
between  us  had  taken  place.  Little  did  he  think, 
when  it  w^as  written,  on  what  occasion  it  would 
fall  into  my  hands.  He  had  begun  three  tragedie? 
when  very  young ;  one  was  upon  Boadicca,  an 
other  upon  Inez  de  Castro;  the  third  was  a  ficti 
tious  subject.  He  had  planned  also  a  history  of 
Nottingham.  There  was  a  letter  upon  the  famous 
Nottingham  election,  which  seemed  to  have  beer 
intended  cither  for  the  newspapers,  or  for  £' 
separate  pamphlet.  It  was  written  to  confute  th( 
absurd  stories  of  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  the 
Goddess  of  Reason  ;  with  the  most  minute  know 
ledge  of  the  circumstances,  and  a  not  impropei 
fooling  of  indignation  against  so  infamous  a  cal 
umny :  and  this  came  with  more  weight  fron 
him,  as  his  party  inclinations  seemed  to  havi 
leaned  towards  the  side  which  he  was  opposing 
This  was  his  only  finished  composition  in  prose 
Much  of  his  time,  latterly,  had  been  devoted  t( 
the  study  of  Greek  prosody  :  he  had  begun  severa 
poems  in  Greek,  and  a  translation  of  the  Samsoi 
Agonistes.  I  have  inspected  all  the  existing  man 
uscripts  of  Chatterton,  and  they  excited  les 
wonder  than  these. 

Had  my  knowledge  of  Henry  terminated  here 
I  should  have  hardly  believed  that  my  admiratioi 
and  regret  for  him  could  have  besn  increased 
but  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  his  moral  qualities 
his  good  sense,  and  his  whole  feelings,  were  a: 
admirable  as  his  industry  and  genius.  All  hi 
letters  to  his  family  have  been  communicated  t' 
me  without  reserve,  and  most  of  those  to  hi 
friends.  They  make  him  his  own  biographer,  am 
lay  open  as  pure  and  as  excellent  a  heart  as  i 
ever  pleased  the  Almighty  to  warm  into  life. 

It  is  not  possible  to  conceive  a  human  bein^ 
more  amiable  in  all  the  relations  of  life.  He  wa 
the  confidential  friend  and  adviser  of  every  mem 
ber  of  his  family  :  this  he  instinctively  became 
and  the  thorough  good  sense  of  his  advice  is  no 
leas  remarkable,  than  the  affection  wuth  which  i 
is  always  communicated.  To  his  mother  he  is  a 
earnest  in  beseeching  her  to  be  careful  of  he 
health,  as  he  is  in  laboring  to  convince  her  tha 

436 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


XXI 


liis  own  complaints  were  abating :  his  letters  to 
her  are  alwa3'^s  of  hopes,  of  consolation,  and  of 
love.  To  jS'eville  he  writes  with  the  most  bro- 
therly intimacy,  still,  however,  in  that  occasional 
tone  of  advice  which  it  was  his  nature  to  assume, 
not  from  any  arrogance  of  superiority,  but  from 
earnestness  of  pure  affection.  To  his  younger 
brother  he  addresses  himself  like  the  tenderest  and 
wisest  parent ;  and  to  two  sisters,  then  too  young 
for  any  other  communication,  he  writes  to  direct 
their  studies,  to  inquire  into  their  progress,  to  en- 
courage and  to  improve  them.  Such  letters  as 
these  are  not  for  the  public ;  but  they  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  will  lay  them  to  their  hearts 
like  relics,  and  will  find  in  them  a  saving  virtue, 
more  than  ever  relics  possessed. 

With  regard  to  his  poems,  the  criterion  for 
selection  was  not  so  plain ;  midoubtedly  many 
have  been  chosen  which  he  himself  would  not 
have  published ;  and  some  few  which,  had  he 
lived  to  have  taken  that  rank  among  English 
poets  which  would  assuredly  have  been  within 
his  reach,  I  also  should  then  have  rejected  among 
his  posthumous  papers.  I  have,  however,  to  the 
best  of  my  judgment,  selected  none  which  does 
not  either  mark  the  state  of  his  mind,  or  its  pro- 
gress, or  discover  evident  proofs  of  what  he  would 
have  been,  if  it  had  not  been  the  will  of  Heaven 
to  remove  him  so  soon.  The  reader,  who  feels 
any  admiration  for  Henry,  will  take  some  interest 
in  all  these  Remains,  because  they  are  his :  he 
who  shall  feel  none  must  have  a  blind  heart,  and 
therefore  a  blind  understanding.  Such  poems 
are  to  be  considered  as  making  up  his  history. 
But  the  greater  number  are  of  such  beauty,  that 
Chatterton  is  the  only  youthful  poet  whom  he 
does  not  leave  far  behind  him. 

While  he  was  under  IMr.  Grainger  he  wrote  very 
little ;  and  when  he  went  to  Cambridge  he  was 
advised  to  stifle  his  poetical  fire,  for  severer  and 
more  important  studies ;  to  lay  a  billet  on  the 
embers  until  he  had  taken  his  degree,  and  then 
he  might  fan  it  into  a  flame  again.  This  advice 
he  followed  so  scrupulously,  that  a  few  fragments, 
written  chiefly  upon  the  back  of  his  mathemati- 
cal papers,  are  all  which  he  produced  at  the 
University.  The  greater  part,  therefore,  of  these 
poems,  indeed  nearly  the  whole  of  them,  were 
written  before  he  was  nineteen.  Wise  as  the 
advice  may  have  been  which  had  been  given  him, 
it  is  now  to  be  regretted  that  he  adhered  to  it, 
his  latter  fragments  bearing  all  those  marks  of 
improvement  which  were  to  be  expected  from 
a  mind  so  rapidly  and  continually  progressive. 
Frequently  he  expresses  a  fear  that  early  death 
would  rob  him  of  his  fame ;  yet,  short  as  his  life 
was,  it  has  been  long  enough  for  him  to  leave 
works  worthy  of  remembrance.    The  very  cir- 

2M2 


cumstance  of  his  early  death  gives  a  new  interest 
to  his  memory,  and  tliereby  new  force  to  his 
example.  Just  at  that  age  when  the  painter 
would  have  wished  to  fix  Jiis  likeness,  and  tlio 
lover  of  poetry  would  delight  to  contemplate 
him, — in  the  fair  morning  of  liis  virtues,  the  full 
spring-blossom  of  his  hopes, — ^just  at  that  age 
hath  death  set  the  seal  of  eternity  upon  him,  and 
the  beautiful  hath  been  made  permanent.  To 
the  young  poets  who  come  at\cr  him,  Henry  will 
be  what  Chatterton  was  to  him  ;  and  they  will 
find  in  him  an  example  of  hopes  with  regard  to 
worldly  fortune,  as  humble,  and  as  exalted  in  all 
better  things,  as  are  enjoined  equally  by  wisdom 
and  religion,  by  the  experience  of  man,  and  the 
word  of  God  :  and  this  example  will  be  as  en- 
couraging as  it  is  excellent.  It  has  been  too  much 
the  custom  to  complain  that  genius  is  neglected, 
and  to  blame  the  public  when  the  public  is  not 
in  fault.  They  who  are  thus  lamented  as  the 
victims  of  genius,  have  been,  in  almost  every  in- 
stance, the  victims  of  their  own  vices;  while 
genius  has  been  made,  like  charity,  to  cover  a 
multitude  of  sins,  and  to  excuse  that  which  in 
reality  it  aggravates.  In  this  age,  and  in  this 
country,  whoever  deserves  encouragement  is, 
sooner  or  later,  sure  to  receive  it.  Of  this  Henry's 
history  is  an  honorable  proof.  The  particular 
patronage  which  he  accepted  was  given  as  much 
to  his  piety  and  religious  opinions  as  to  his  ge- 
nius :  but  assistance  was  offered  him  from  other 
quarters.  Mr.  P.  Thomson  (of  Boston,  Lincoln- 
shire), merely  upon  perusing  his  little  volume, 
wrote  to  know  how  he  could  serve  him;  and 
there  were  many  friends  of  literature  who  were 
ready  to  have  afforded  him  any  support  which 
he  needed,  if  he  had  not  been  thus  provided.  In 
the  University  he  received  every  encouragement 
which  he  merited;  and  from  Mr.  Simeon,  and  his 
tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  the  most  fatherly  kindness. 

"  I  can  venture,"  says  a  lady  of  Cambridge,  in 
a  letter  to  his  brother, — "  I  can  venture  to  say, 
with  certainty,  there  was  no  member  of  the  Uni- 
versify,  however  high  his  rank  or  talents,  who 
would  not  have  been  happy  to  have  availed  them- 
selves  of  the  opportunity  of  being  acquainted 
with  Mr.  Henj-y  Kirke  White.  I  mention  this  to 
introduce  a  wish  which  has  been  expressed  to  mo 
so  oflen  by  the  senior  members  of  the  University, 
that  I  dare  not  decline  the  task  the}'  have  im- 
posed upon  me  ;  it  is  their  hope  that  3Ir.  Southcy 
will  do  as  much  justice  to  Mr.  Henry  Wliite's  lim- 
ited wishes,  to  his  unassuming  pretensions,  and 
to  his  rational  and  fervent  piety,  as  to  his  various 
acquirements,  his  polished  taste,  his  poetical  fan- 
cy, his  undcvialing  principles,  and  the  excellence 
of  his  moral  character :  and  that  he  will  suffer  it 
to  be  understood,  that  these  inestimable  qualities 

437 


XXll 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


had  not  been  unobserved,  nor  would  tliey  liave 
remained  unacknowledged.  It  was  the  general 
observation,  that  he  possessed  genius  without  its 
eccentricities."  Of  fervent  piety,  indeed,  his  let- 
ters, his  prayers,  and  his  hymns,  will  afford  am- 
ple and  interesting  proofs.  It  was  in  him  a  living 
and  quickening  principle  of  goodness,  which  sanc- 
tified all  his  hopes  and  all  his  affections ;  which 
made  him  keep  watch  over  his  own  heart,  and 
enabled  him  to  correct  the  few  symptoms,  which 
it  ever  displayed,  of  human  imperfection. 

His  temper  had  been  irritable  in  his  younger 
days ;  but  this  he  had  long  since  effectually  over- 
come :  the  marks  of  youthful  confidence,  which 
appear  in  his  earliest  letters,  had  also  disappeared; 
ajid  it  was  impossible  for  any  man  to  be  more 
tenderly  patient  of  the  faults  of  others,  more  uni- 
formly  meek,  or  more  unaffectedly  humble.  He 
seldom  discovered  any  sportiveness  of  imagina- 
tion, though  he  would  very  ably  and  pleasantly 
rally  any  one  of  his  friends  for  any  little  pecu- 
liarity ;  his  conversation  was  always  sober  and  to 
the  purpose.  That  which  is  most  remarkable  in 
him,  is  his  uniform  good  sense,  a  faculty  perhaps 
less  common  than  genius.  There  never  existed 
a  more  dutiful  son,  a  more  affectionate  brotlier,  a 
warmer  friend,  nor  a  devouter  Christian.  Of  his 
powers  of  mind  it  is  superfluous  to  speak ;  they 
were  acknowledged  wherever  they  were  known. 
It  would  be  idle,  too,  to  say  what  hopes  were  en- 
tertained of  him,  and  what  he  might  have  ac- 
complished in  literature.  This  volume  contains 
what  he  has  left,  immature  buds  and  blossoms 
shaken  from  the  tree,  and  green  fruit ;  yet  will 
tliey  evince  what  tlie  harvest  would  have  been, 
and  secure  for  liim  that  remembrance  upon  earth 
for  which  he  toiled. 

Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould, 

Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 

That  these 

Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  ! 

Wordsworth. 
Keswick,  1807. 


PREFACE 

To  a  supplementary  Volume,  the  contents  of  which 
are  included  in  the  present  edition. 
Few  books  have  issued  from  the  press,  during 
flie  last  fifteen  years,  which  have  excited  such 
general  and  unabating  interest  as  the  Remains  of 
Henry  Kirke  White.  I  hoped,  and  indeed  expected, 
this  with  some  confidence ;  in  reliance  upon  some- 
thing  better  than  the  taste  or  judgment  of  that 
many-headed  idol,  the  Public.  I  trusted,  that  the 
genius  of  the  writer,  and  the  purity  and  beauty 
of  his  character,  v.'ould  call  forth  admiration  in 
young  and  generous  hearts  ;  while  a  large  portion 
c£  the  community  would  duly  appreciate  liis  good 


sense,  his  prudence,  and  his  piet}\  And  in  this  J^ 
was  not  deceived :  youth  and  age,  tlie  learnediS' 
and  the  unlearned,  the  proud  intellect  and  the* 
aumble  heart,  have  derived  from  these  melan.^ 
choly  relics  a  pleasure,  equal  perhaps  in  degree,  ''^, 
though  different  in  kind. 

In  consequence  of  this  general  acceptation,  the  v 
relatives  of  the  Author  were  o.len  advised  and  ^„ 
solicited  to  publish  a  farther  selection,  and  ap-i 
plications  to  the  same  effect  were  sometimes  ad-  A 
dressed  to  me.    The  wishes,  thus  privately  ex- 
pressed,  for   a   farther    selection,   having   l^een 
seconded  by  the  publishers,  the  present  volume 
has  been  formed. 

V/ith  regard  to  the  poetry,  having  in  the  first 
instance  exercised  my  own  judgment,  I  did  not 
noAV  think  my  self  justified  in  rejecting  what  others 
recommended  for  insertion.'  The  poems  had  been 


1  At  pajie  12  will  be  found  tlie  two  first  stanzas  of  tlie 
following  piece,  wliich,  having  been  discovered  in  jLS 
since  the  apjKjarance  of  the  earlier  editions  of  these  Poeuis 
is  here  given  as  completed  by  the  author : 

TO  THE  WIND  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Nor  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 

Blasts  of  the  night!  ye  howl,  as  now 

My  shudd"ring  casement  round 

With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 

3Iine  ear  hath  caught  in  silent  awe 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush; 

And  when  the  pausing  gale 

Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 

Once  more  I  listen  ;  sadly  communing 
Witliin  me,— once  more  mark,  storm-clothed, 

The  moon  as  the  dark  cloud 

Glides  rapidly  away. 

I,  deeming  that  the  voice  of  spirits  dwells 
In  these  mysterious  moans,  in  solemn  thought 

Muse  in  the  choral  dance, 

The  dead  man's  Jubilee. 

Hark !  how  the  spirit  knocks,— how  loud- 
Even  at  my  window  knocks, — again  : — 

I  cannot — dare  not  sleep, — 

It  is  a  boisterous  night. 

I  would  not,  at  this  moment,  be 
In  the  drear  forest-groves,  to  hear 

This  uproar  and  rude  song 

Ring  o'er  the  arched  aisles. 

The  ear  doth  shudder  at  such  sounds 
As  the  embodied  winds,  in  their  disport, 

Wake  in  the  hollow  woods, 

When  man  is  gone  to  sleep. 

There  have  been  heard  unchristian  shrieks 
And  rude  distemper'd  merriment. 

As  though  the  autumnal  woods 

Were  all  in  morrice-dance. 


There's  mystery  in  these  sounds,  and  I 
Love  not  to  have  the  grave  disturb'd ; 


438 


LIFE  OF  HExNRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


xxiu 


sen  by  many  friends  of  the  family,  and  as  in  this 
ase  no  possible  injury  could  be  done  to  the  repu- 
|ition  of  the  dead,  I  willingly  deferred  to  their 
Irishes  and  feelings.  That  which  has  pleased  one 
arson  may  be  expected  to  please  others,  and  the 
iroductions  of  an  immature  mind  will  be  read  by 
ther  minds  in  the  same  stage,  with  which  they 
fill  be  in  unison.  The  lover  of  poetry,  as  well 
s  the  artist  and  the  antiquary,  may  be  allowed 

0  have  his  relics.  Even  in  the  relic-worship  of 
he  Romish  superstition,  what  we  condemn,  is  not 
he  natural  and  becoming  sentiment,  but  the 
buse  which  has  been  made  of  it,  and  the  follies 
jid  villanies  which  have  been  committed  in  con- 
equencG. 

It  is  a  mournful  thing  to  consider  how  much 
he  world  has  lost  in  a  mind  so  highly  gifted,  and 
egulated  by  such  principles.  The  country  is 
verflowung  with  talents  :  and  mere  talents,  di- 
ected  as  they  are  more  frequently  to  evil  than 

good,  are  to  be  regretted  when  they  are  cut  off, 
>nly  in  compassion  for  those  who  must  answer  for 
heir  misapplication  :  but  one  who  had  chosen  his 

t  well,  and  would  have  stood  forward,  armed 
,t  all  points,  among  the  conservative  spirits  of 
tie  age,  can  ill  be  spared.  Yet  he  has  not  lived 
a  vain,  either  for  himself  or  others.  Perhaps 
:0  after-works  which  he  might  have  left  on  earth, 
lowever  elaborate,  could  have  been  so  influential 
8  his  youthful  example.  For  many  are  the  young 
nd  ardent  minds  who  have  received,  and  many, 
aginy  more  are  they  who  will  receive  from  him 
,  right  bias  in  the  beginning  of  their  course, 
tfany  are  the  youthful  poets  who  will  recognise 
iieir  own  feelings  concerning  Henry  Kirke  White, 

1  this  sweet  Sonnet : 

Though  as  the  dew  of  morning,  short  thy  date, 
Though  Sorrow  look'd  on  thee,  and  said—"  Be  mine !" 
ret  with  a  holy  ardor,  bard  divine,         ' 
I  burn— I  burn  to  share  thy  glorious  fate, 
4bove  whatever  of  honors  or  estate, 
This  transient  world  can  give!  I  would  resign, 
IVith  rapture,  Fortune's  choicest  gifts  for  thine, — 
More  truly  noble,  more  sublimely  great ! 
For  thou  hast  gain'd  the  prize  of  well-tried  worth, 
That  prize  which  from  thee  never  can  be  riven ; 
Thine,  Henry,  is  a  deathless  name  on  earth. 
Thine  amaranthine  wreaths,  new-pluck'd  in  heaven  ! 
By  what  aspiring  child  of  mortal  birth 
Could  more  be  ask'd,  to  whom  might  more  be  given? 
Chacncy  Hare  Tovvnsend. 


And  dismal  trains  arise 
From  the  unpeopled  tombs. 

Spirits,  I  pray  ye,  let  them  sleep 
Peaceful  in  their  cold  graves,  nor  waft 
The  sear  and  whispering  leaf 
.  From  the  inhumed  breast. 


A.  tablet  to  Henry's  memory,  with  a  medallion 
by  Chantrey,  has  been  placed  in  All-Saints  Church, 
Cambridge,  at  the  expense  of  a  young  American 
entleman,  Mr.  Francis  Boott,  of  Boston.  During 
his  travels  in  this  country,  he  visited  the  grave  of 
one  whom  he  had  learnt  to  love  and  regret  in 
America;  and  finding  no  other  memorial  of  him 
than  the  initials  of  his  name  upon  the  plain  stono 
which  covers  his  perishable  remains,  ordered  this 
monument  to  be  erected.  It  bears  an  inscription* 
by  Professor  Smyth,  who,  while  Henry  was  living, 
treated  him  with  characteristic  kindness,  and  has 
consigned  to  posterity  this  durable  expression  of 
his  friendship. 

Keswick,  1822. 


1  Lines  hy  Professor  Smyth  of  Cambridge,  on  a  movument, 
erected  by  Francis  Boott,  Esq.  an  American  Gentleman, 
in  Ml-Saints  Church,  Cambridge,  to  the  Memory  o/IIenry 
KiRKE  White. 

Warm  with  fond  hope,  and  learning's  sacred  flame, 
To  Granta's  bowers,  the  youthful  poet  came ; 
Unconquer'd  powers  th'  immortal  mind  display'd: 
But  worn  with  anxious  thought,  the  frame  decay'd : 
Pale  o'er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retired, 
Tlie  martyr  student  faded  and  expired. 
Oh!  genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere. 
Too  early  lost,  'midst  studies  too  severe! 
Foremost  to  mourn,  was  gen'rous  Southey  seen. 
He  told  the  tale,  and  show'd  what  White  had  been, 
Nor  told  in  vain — Far  o'er  th'  Atlantic  wave 
A  wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  poet's  grave ; 
On  yon  low  stone,  he  saw  his  lonely  name. 
And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 

Lines  and  Note  by  Lord  Byron. 

Unhappy  White!  (a)  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came ;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroy'd  her  favorite  son! 
Yes !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  Death  has  reap'd  the  fruit. 
'T  was  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  help'd  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low. 
So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  tluough  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
View'd  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quiver'd  in  his  heart. 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel. 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impelled  the  steel ; 
While  the  same  plumage  that  hud  warm'd  his  nest, 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 


(a)  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge  in  Oclober, 
1806,  in  conseciuence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of 
studies  that  would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and 
poverty  could  not  impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed 
rather  than  subdued.  His  poems  abound  in  such  beauties  a« 
must  impress  the  reader  with  the  liveliest  repret  that  so  short  a 
period  was  allotted  to  talents,  which  would  have  dignified  evea 
the  sacred  functions  he  was  dcsfined  to  assume. 

439 


i 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


^  Kimssi^ 


R^m 


WRITTEN  BEFORE  THE  PUBLICATION  OF  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


CHILDHOOD. 

This  is  one  of  the  author's  earhest  productions,  and  appears, 
by  the  handwriting,  to  have  been  %vritten  when  he  was  be- 
tween fourteen  and  fifteen.  The  picture  of  the  school-mis- 
tress is  from  nature. 


PART  I. 

1*ICTURED  in  memory's  mellowing  glass,  how  sweet 
'  Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys,  to  greet ! 
To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherish'd  scene, 
The  village  church-yard  and  the  village-green. 
The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  green-wood  glade, 
The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  shade, 
The  white-wash'd  cottage,  Avhere  the  woodbine  grew, 
And  all  the  favorite  haunts  our  childhood  knew ! 
How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 
To  view  th'  unclouded  skies  of  former  days ! 

;  Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles, 
'  When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles ; 
■  When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  day-spring  true, 
i  Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 

Blest  Childhood,  hail  I^Thee  simply  will  I  sing, 
I  And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 
:  These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 
;  Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more, 
j  And  every  stump  faraihar  to  my  sight 
i  Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight. 

!  This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favorite  seat ; 
Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat, 
And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 
Hesper,  aspiring,  show'd  his  golden  light. 
Here  once  again,  gemote  from  human  noise, 
I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys ; 
Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once  more. 
And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore  : 
While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognize, 
My  melted  soul  sujflfuses  in  my  eyes. 

And  oh !  thou  Power,  whose  mvriad  trains  resort 
To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought  ; 
Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye. 
Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrow'd  gleam  of  joy ; 
56 


Blest  Memory !  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true, 
Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view ; 
Recall  with  faithful  \igor  to  my  mind. 
Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind ; 
And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford. 
Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored. 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls, 
In  many  a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school, 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule  ; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien  ; 
Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean 
Her  neatly  border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair. 
Beneath  her  chin  was  pinn'd  with  decent  care ; 
And  pendant  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn. 
Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 
Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grouTi  her  eyes 
A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies  : 
These  does  she  guard  secure  in  leathern  case. 
From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 

Here  first  I  enler'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain. 

The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane  ; 

Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 

Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display 

Much  did  I  grieve  on  that  ill-fated  morn. 

While  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne : 

Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  tried 

To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd  ; 

And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept. 

To  my  lone  comer  broken-hearted  crept. 

And  thought  of  tender  home  where  anger  never  kept 

But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils. 
Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles! 
First  at  the  form,  my  task  for  ever  true, 
A  little  favorite  rapidly  I  grew : 
And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight. 
Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 
And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honors  of  my  future  days. 

Oh !  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought  ; 

441 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Could  she  hj^ue  seen  me  when  revolving  years 
Had  brought^me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  and  unletter'd  state; 
Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife. 
Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life. 

Where,  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unblest. 

Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ? 

A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main. 

Without  a  hope  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain ; 

Long  toss'd  by  tempest  o'er  the  Avorld's  wide  shore, 

When  shall  his  spirit  rest  to  toil  no  more  ? 

Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 

The  sandy  surface  of  his  uuAvept  grave. 

Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms, 

Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms, — 

Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 

And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 

Sweet  reign  of  innocence  where  no  crime  defiles, 

But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles ; 

When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight, 

But  all  is  pregnant  with  unniixt  delight; 

To  thee  I  turn  from  riot  and  from  noise. 

Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor, 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labor  o'er. 
What  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groups  were 

seen. 
In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green  ! 
Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass. 
With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  staroh'd, 
A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march'd; 
For  banners,  to  a  tall  sash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead. 
And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed  ; 
Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown. 
We  storm'd  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 

To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front, 

And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 

To  view  our  gambols  and  our  boyish  gear. 

Still  as  she  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round, 

With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 

When  tired  of  play  we  'd  set  us  by  her  side 

(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide) — 

And  wonder  at  her  skill — well  known  to  fame — 

For  who  could  match  in  spinning  wi*h  the  dame  ? 

Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  show'd  with  pride 

To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified ; 

Though  we,  poor  wights  I  did  wonder  much  in  troth. 

How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oil  would  we  leave,  though  well  beloved,  our  play. 

To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 

Many's  the  time  I've  scamper'd  down  the  glade, 

To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid. 

Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing, 

While  we  around  her  form'd  a  little  ring : 

She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed, 

Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed. 

Or  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept ; 

While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 


Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be 
Poor  simple  wiglus  I  ah,  little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  lit'e's  sad  scene ! 
Ah,  htlle  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know 
This  world  's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  woe  I 

Beloved  moment !  then  't  was  first  I  caught 

The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought ; 

Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thniling  tear. 

Then  first  that  poesy  charm.'d  mine  infant  ear. 

Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore. 

The  sports  of  Childhood  charmVl  my  soul  no  more. 

Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise, 

Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 

I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade, 

And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid, 

\\'hile  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran. 

The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I  'd  scan  ; 

Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air. 

To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there 


PART  II. 

There  are,  who  think  that  Childhood  does  not  sharo    j 
With  age.  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care  : 
Alas!  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth, 
That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 

From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind, 
Man  is  foredoom'd  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find ; 
At  every  step  has  further  cause  to  know 
The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  woe. 

Yet  in  the  youthful  breast,  for  ever  caught 
With  some  new  object  for  romantic  thought, 
The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  flies, 
And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies. 

How  diflfbrent  manhood  I — then  does  Thought's  con 

trol 
Sink  every  pan?  still  deeper  in  the  soul ; 
Then  keen  Aflfliction's  sad  unceasing  smart 
Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 
And  Care,  whom  not  the  gaj-est  can  out-brave, 
Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave. 
Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summon'd  hence 
We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompense, 
And  as  we  weep  o'er  ever}'  new-made  tomb. 
Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom 

Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 
No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view. 
No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep. 
But  halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep: 
And  sanguine  Hope,  through  even,'  storm  of  life, 
Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal  strife 
Yet  e'en  round  Childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless  shrine, 
Afl^eciion's  little  thread  will  ever  twine ; 
And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie. 
The  soul  foregoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 
Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came. 
When  forced  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame. 
Reluctant  throbbings  rose  within  my  breast, 
And  a  still  tear  my  silent  grief  express'd. 

When  to  the  public  school  compell'd  to  go. 
What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  flow ! 

442 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


3 


There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates ! 
.VhicU  broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  states  : 
There  reigns,  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 
Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate; 
\nd  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere, 
The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear, 
i.'^et  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim. 
There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame. 
There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell, 
\nd  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell ; 
\nd  there,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 
The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind. 

T  was  there.  Oh,  George !  with  thee  I  learn'd  to  join 
n  Friendship's  bands — in  amity  divine. 
3h,  moiirnfal  thought  I — Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 
\s  here  I  sit  on  fav'rite  Logar's  brow, 
^nd  trace  below  each  well-remember'd  glade. 
IVhere,  arm  in  arm,  erewhile  with  thee  I  stray'd. 
IVhere  art  thou  laid — on  what  untrodden  shore, 
i\'^here  nought  is  heard  save  Ocean's  sullen  roar  ? 
Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 
\t  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  ? 
Vlethinlcs  I  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave, 
rt^ithout  one  aiding  hand  stretch'd  out  to  save ; 
See  thee,  convulsed,  thy  looks  to  heaven  bend, 
Vnd  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend ; 
)r  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay, 
'orlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way, 
^hile  sorrow  and  disease,  with  anguish  rife, 
^lonsume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  life. 
\gain  I  see  his  door  against  thee  shut, 
The  unfeeling  native  turn  thee  from-  his  hut  : 

e  thee  spent  with  toil  and  w^om  with  grief, 
Sit  on  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief, 
Then  lie  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er. 
Think  on  thy  native  land — and  rise  no  more  I 

3h !  that  thou  couldst,  from  thine  august  abode. 
Survey  thy  friend  in  life's  dismaying  road  ! 
Fhal  thou  couldst  see  him  at  this  moment  here, 
Embalm  thy  memory  with  a  pioufrtear, 
And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 
IVhere  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround ! 

Fes!  yes!  his  spirit 's  near! — The  whispering  breeze. 
Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees ; 
And  lo !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 
Borne  on  the  grey  mist  of  the  sullen  eve  : 
He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe, 
WTiile  deathly  silence  reigns  upon  the  globe. 

Yet,  ah  !  whence  comes  this  visionary  scene  ? 

T^is  Fancy's  wild  aerial  dream,  I  ween  ; 

By  her  inspired,  when  reason  takes  its  flight, 

What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight ! 

She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo!  what  forms  appear! 

What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wandering  ear! 

Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread. 

And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherish'd  dead ; 

While  present  sorrow's  banish'd  far  away. 

Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day. 

Or  in  the  future's  cloud-encircled  face. 

Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 

And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 

Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile. 


So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate. 
The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sate, 
And  view'd  the  moonbeam  trembling  on  the  wave. 
And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave. 
Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight, 
For  there  her  soul  had  vving'd  its  longing  flight; 
There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy. 
Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy, 
Which  bright  through  Hope's  deceitful  optics  beam'd 
And  all  became  the  surely  which  it  seem'd  ; 
She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm, 
In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep, 
Just  yield  a  scanty  sust'nance  to  the  sheep. 
With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped, 
To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed ; 
To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn. 
Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn, 
And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys. 
Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes  : 
W^ith  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 
The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strew'd 
The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade. 
Round  which  the  silvery  sunbeam  glancing  play'd. 
And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne. 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone ; 
We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 
Reviving  Nature  hail'd  returning  day  ; 
Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping  heads 
And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 
While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 
The  birds  sung  pseans  to  the  source  of  light : 
Oft  have  we  watch'd  the  speckled  lark  arise, 
Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies. 
And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more 
Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour ; 
Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 
Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 
And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot    , 
Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot, 
W'here,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 
Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave. 
We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day. 
And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

At  sultry  noon  too,  when  our  toils  were  done. 
We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run : 
There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at  our  feet 
The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet: 
And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore. 
Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more ; 
Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept, 
Sang  woe  unto  the  wicked  land — and  wept: 
Or,  fancy-led — saw  Jeremiali  mourn 
In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn. 
Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove. 
With  Plato  talk  in  his  Illyssian  grove ; 
Or,  wandering  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose, 
Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band. 
The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land — 
Chivalric  Brilomart  and  Una  fair. 
And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair, 
By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged  ;   and  oft  we  talk'd 
Of  times  when  monarch  superstition  stalk'd, 

443 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  when  the  blood-fraught  galliots  of  Rome 
Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom : 
While,  where  the  wood-hung  Meinai's  waters  flow, 
The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  woe. 

While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 
Which  sunimon'd  us  to  school !  'T  was  Fancy's  knell, 
And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear. 
It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 
Yet  even  then,  (for  Oh !  what  chains  can  hind, 
What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind  ?) 
E'en  then  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime, 
And  many  a  day-dream  charm'd  the  lazy  time. 

At  evening  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 

Endear'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk ! 

When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 

To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day  5 

How  calm  was  all  around !  no  playful  breeze 

Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees. 

But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song. 

The  grey-fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along ; 

And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee. 

The  distant  church-bells'  mellow  harmony ; 

The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook. 

That  'mid  the  tufled  broom  its  still  course  took  ; 

The  rugged  arch  that  clasp'd  its  silent  tides. 

With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides : 

The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight; 

The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 

All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 

We  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high. 

In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky ; 

Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  color'd  pride 

Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide. 

And,  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 

To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  convey'd. 

In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace. 

While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space ! 

Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car. 

Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 

Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high. 

In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  tlie  sky — 

Or  saw%  wide-stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 

A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white. 

Hugely  terrific. — But  those  times  are  o'er. 

And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  more; 

For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below. 

Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  woe. 

The  scene  is  o'er — still  seasons  onward  roll, 

And  each  revolve  conducts  me  towards  the  goal ; 

Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 

One  endless  continuity  of  grief, 

And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime. 

Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds !  that  pant 

For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want : 

And,  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign 

The  calms  of  peace  and  hajipiness  divine ! 

Far  other  cares  be  mine, — Men  little  crave 

In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave; 

And  the  poor  peasant,  bless'd  with  peace  and  health, 

I  envy  more  than  CrcEsus  with  his  wealth. 


Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  Fate  did  not  decree 
Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me  : 
She  gave  me  more ;  she  placed  within  my  breast 
A  heart  with  little  pleased — with  little  blest! 
I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side. 
Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride ; 
And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 
I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 

But  whither  do  I  wander?  shall  the  Muse, 

For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse  ? 

Oh,  no !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 

The  fading  scenes  of  childhood's  far-gone  sweets, 

It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue. 

And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 

That  song  must  close — the  gloomy  mists  of  night 

Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light, 

And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapory  wet, 

Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primeval  jet. 

The  song  must  close. — Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherish'd  spot ; 
Again  compels  to  plimge  in  busy  life, 
And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 

Scenes  of  my  youth !  ere  my  unwilling  feet 
Are  turn'd  for  ever  from  this  loved  retreat, 
Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  cover'd  o'er. 
My  eyes  are  closed  to  ope  on  them  no  more, 
Let  me  ejaculate,  to  feeling  due. 
One  long,  one  last  aflfectionate  adieu. 
Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease. 
Grant  that,  in  these  sequester'd  shades,  my  days 
May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays; 
And  oh!  ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play. 
Unseen,  upon  the  pinions  of  the  day. 
Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign, 
Who  were  *  *  *  * 


THE   FAIR  IVL\ID   OF   CLIFTON. 

A  NEW  BALLAD  IN  THE  OLD  STYLE. 

The  night  it  was  dark,  and  the  winds  were  high. 

And  mournfully  waved  the  wood. 
As  Bateman  met  his  Margaret 

By  Trent's  majestic  flood. 

He  press'd  the  maiden  to  his  breast. 
And  his  heart  it  was  rack'd  with  fear. 

For  he  knew,  that  again,  't  was  a  deadly  chanc» 
If  ever  he  press'd  her  there. 

"  Oh  !  Margaret,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true," 

He  said,  "  wliile  I  am  far  away. 
For  to-morrow  I  go  to  a  foreign  land, 

And  there  I  have  long  to  stay." 

And  the  maid  she  vow'd  she  would  bear  him  true. 

And  thereto  she  plighted  her  troth ; 
And  she  pray'd  the  fiend  might  fetch  her  away. 

When  she  forgot  her  oath. 

And  the  night-owl  scream'd,  as  again  she  swore, 
And  the  grove  it  did  mournfully  moan. 

And  Bateman's  heart  within  him  sunk, 
He  thought  't  was  liis  dying  groan. 

444 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


And  shortly  he  went  with  CUfton,  his  Lord, 

To  abide  in  a  foreign  land  ; 
And  Margaret  she  forgot  her  oath, 

And  she  gave  to  another  her  hand. 

Her  husband  was  rich,  but  old,  and  crabb'd. 

And  oft  the  false  one  sigh'd, 
And  wish'd  that  ere  she  broke  her  vow, 

She  had  broken  her  heart,  and  died. 

And  now  return'd,  her  Bateman  came 

To  demand  his  betrothed  bride  ; 
But  soon  he  learn'd  that  she  had  sought 

A  wealthier  lover's  side. 

And  when  he  heard  the  dreadful  news, 

No  sound  he  uiter'd  more. 
But  his  stifTen'd  corse,  ere  the  morn,  w-as  seen 

Hung  at  his  false  one's  door. 

And  Margaret,  all  night,  in  her  bed. 

She  dreamed  hideous  dreams  ; 
And  oft  upon  the  moaning  wind 

Were  heard  her  frightful  screams. 

And  when  she  knew  of  her  lover's  death, 
On  her  brow  stood  the  clammy  dew% 

She  thought  of  her  oath,  and  she  thought  of  her  fate, 
And  she  saw  that  her  days  were  few. 

But  the  Lord  he  is  just,  and  the  guilty  alone 
Have  to  fear  of  his  vengeance  the  lash. 

The  thunderbolt  harms  not  the  innocent  head. 
While  the  criminal  dies  'neath  the  flash. 

His  justice,  she  knew,  would  spare  her  awhile 
For  the  child  that  she  bare  in  her  womb ; 

But  she  felt,  that  when  it  was  born  therefrom 
She  must  instantly  go  to  her  tomb. 

The  hour  approach'd,  and  she  view'd  it  with  fear 

As  the  date  of  her  earthly  time  ; 
And  she  tried  to  pray  to  Almighty  God, 

To  expiate  her  crime. 

And  she  begg'd  her  relations  would  come  at  the  day, 
And  the  parson  would. pray  at  her  side ; 

And  the  clerk  would  sing  a  penitent  hymn. 
With  all  the  singers  beside. 

And  she  begg'd  they  would  bar  the  windows  so  strong, 

And  put  a  new  lock  to  the  doer ; 
And  sprinkle  with  holy  water  the  house, 

And  over  her  chamljer-floor. 

And  they  barr'd  with  iron  the  windows  so  strong. 
And  they  put  a  new  lock  on  the  door  ; 

And  the  parson  he  came,  and  he  carefully  strew'd 
With  holy  water  the  floor. 

And  her  kindred  came  to  see  the  dame. 
And  the  clerk,  and  the  singers  beside  ; 

And  they  did  sing  a  penitent  hymn. 
And  with  her  did  abide. 

And  midnight  came,  and  shortly  the  dame 

Did  give  to  her  child  the  light  ; 
And  then  she  did  pray,  that  they  would  stay, 

And  pass  with  her  the  nigUt. 

2N 


And  she  begg'd  they  would  sing  the  penitent  hymn. 

And  pray  with  ail  their  might  ; 
For  sadly  I  fear,  the  fiend  will  be  here, 

And  fetch  me  away  this  night. 

And  now  without,  a  stormy  rout, 

With  howls,  the  guests  did  hear  ; 
And  the  parson  he  pray'd,  for  he  was  afraid, 

And  the  singers  they  quaver'd  with  fear. 

And  Marg'ret  pray'd  the  Almighty's  aid, 

For  louder  the  tempest  grew  ; 
And  every  guest,  his  soul  he  bless'd, 

As  the  tapers  burned  blue. 

And  the  fair  again,  she  pray'd  of  the  men 

To  sing  with  all  their  might ; 
And  they  did  sing,  till  the  house  did  ring. 

And  louder  they  sung  for  affright. 

But  now  their  song,  it  died  on  their  tongue, 

For  sleep  it  was  seizing  their  sense  ; 
And  Marg'ret  scream'd,  and  bid  them  not  sleep, 

Or  the  fiends  would  bear  her  thence. 


SONG. 

THE  ROBIN  RED-BREAST.    A  VERY  EARLY  COMPOSITIOX. 

Whex  the  winter  wind  whistles  around  my  lone  cot, 
And  my  holiday  friends  have  my  mansion  forgot. 
Though  a  lonely  poor  being,  still  do  not  1  pine, 
While  my  poor  Robin  Red-breast  forsakes  not  my 
shrine. 

He  comes  with  the  morning,  he  hops  on  mv  arm, 
lor  he  knows  'tis  too  gentle  to  do  him  a  harm : 
And  in  gratitude  ever  beguiles  with  a  lay 
The  soul-sick'ning  thoughts  of  a  bleak  winter's  day. 

What,  though  he  may  leave  me,  when  spring  a^ain 

smiles. 
To  waste  the  sweet  summer  in  love's  little  wiles. 
Yet  will  he  remember  his  fosterer  long. 
And  greet  her  each  morning  with  one  little  song 

And  when  the  rude  blast  shall  again  strip  the  trees, 

And  plenty  no  longer  shall  fly  on  the  breeze. 

Oh  !  then  he  'II  return  to  his  Helena  kind, 

And  repose  in  her  breast  from  the  rude  northern  wind 

My  sweet  little  Robin 's  no  holiday  guest. 
He  '11  never  foi-get  his  poor  Helena's  breast ; 
But  will  strive  to  repay,  by  his  generous  song. 
Her  love,  and  her  cares,  in  the  winter  day  long. 


WINTER  SONG. 

Rouse  the  blazing  midnight  fire, 
Heap  the  crackling  figots  higher  ; 
Stern  December  reigns  without. 
With  old  Winter's  blust'ring  rout. 


Let  the  jocund  timbrels  sound, 
Push  the  jolly  goblet  round  ; 
Care  avaimt,  with  all  thy  crew. 
Goblins  dire,  and  devils  blue. 


445 


/. 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hark  I  wiihoiit  tlie  tempest  growls  : 
And  the  affrighted  watch-dog  howls ; 
Witches  on  their  broomsticks  sail, 
Death  upon  the  whistling  gale. 

Heap  the  crackling  fagots  higher, 
Draw  your  easy  chairs  still  nigher ; 
And  to  guard  from  wizards  hoar. 
Nail  the  horse-shoe  on  the  door. 

Now  repeat  the  freezing  story, 
Of  the  murder'd  traveller  gory, 
Found  beneath  the  yew-tree  sear,  . 
Cut,  his  throat,  from  ear  to  ear. 

Tell,  too,  how  his  ghost,  all  bloody, 
Frighten'd  once  a  neighb'ring  goody  : 
And  how,  still  at  twelve  he  stalks. 
Groaning  o'er  the  wild-wood  walks. 

Then,  when  fear  usurps  her  sway. 
Let  us  creep  to  bed  away  ; 
Each  for  ghosts,  but  little  bolder. 
Fearfully  peeping  o'er  his  shoulder. 


SONG. 


Sweet  Jessy !  I  would  fain  caress 
That  lovely  cheek  divine  ; 

Sweet  Jessy,  I  'd  give  worlds  to  press 
That  rising  breast  to  mine. 

Sweet  Jessy !  I  with  passion  bum 
Thy  soft  blue  eyes  to  see ; 

Sweet  Jessy,  I  would  die  to  turn 
Those  melting  eyes  on  me. 

Yet,  Jessy,  lovely  as  *  *  * 
Thy  form  and  face  appear, 

I  'd  perish  ere  I  would  consent 
To  buy  them  with  a  tear. 


SONG. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses 
My  Arabella's  breast  that  heaves  on  high  ; 

Pleased  should  I  be  to  taste  the  transient  blisses. 
And  on  the  melting  throne  to  faint,  and  die. 

Oh.  that  I  were  the  robe  that  loosely  covers 
Her  taper  limbs,  and  Grecian  form  divine  ; 

Or  the  entwisted  zones,  like  meeting  lovers, 
That  clasp  her  waist  in  many  an  aery  twine. 

Oh,  that  my  soul  might  take  its  lasting  station 
In  her  waved  hair,  her  perfumed  breath  to  sip: 

Or  catch,  by  chance,  her  blue  eyes'  fascination! 
Or  meet,  by  stealth,  her  soft  vermilion  lip. 

But  chain'd  to  this  dull  being,  I  must  ever 

Lament  the  doom  by  w^hich  I  'm  hither  placed ; 

Must  pant  for  moments  I  must  meet  with  never, 
And  dream  of  beauties  I  must  never  taste. 


FRAGxMENT  OF  AN  ECCENTRIC  DRAMA 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARLY  AGE. 


In  a  little  volume  which  the  author  had  copied  out,  apparentlfi 
for  the  press,  before  the  publication  of  Clifton  Grove,  the  SoDfi 
with  which  tiiis  fragment  commences  was  inserted,  under  thei 
title  of  "The  Dance  of  the  Consumptives,  in  imitation  of 
Shakspeare.  taken  from  an  eccentric  Drama,  written  by  H.^ 
K.  VV.  when  very  young."  The  rest  was  discovered  among 
his  loose  papers,  in  the  first  rude  d- aught,  having,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, never  been  transcribed.  The  song  was  extracted 
when  he  was  sixteen,  and  must  have  been  written  at  least  a 
year  before,  probably  more,  by  the  handwriting.  There  ig 
something  strikingly  wild  and  original  in  the  fragment. 


THE  DANCE  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVES. 

Dixg-dong!  ding-dong!  •: 

Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells. 
Ding-dong !  ding-dong ! 
Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 

"  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  rear." 
Dance,  dance  away  the  jocund  roundelay ! 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  calls  us  away. 

Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  elm, 

Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground  ? 
The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof. 
So  merrily,  merrily  foot  it  round. 
Ding-dong !  ding-dong  I 
Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells. 
Swelling  in  the  nightly  gale. 
The  sentry  ghost. 
It  keeps  its  post. 
And  soon,  and  soon,  our  sports  must  fail  ■ 
But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground, 
While  the  merrj',  merry  bells  ring  round 

Hark!  hark!  the  death-watch  ticks  ; 
See,  see,  the  winding-sheet! 

Our  dance  is  done, 

Our  race  is  run. 
And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet ! 

Ding-dong !  ding-dong ! 

Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells. 
Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave ! 

And  we  must  seek 

Our  death-beds  bleak, 
WTiere  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave 

They  vanish. — The  Goddess  of  Consumption  dt 
scends,  hahited  in  a  sky-blue  robe,  attended  by  mourn 
ful  Music. 

Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine  ! 

Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night! 
Com.e  from  thy  dreary  shrine ! 

The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height, 
And  underneath  the  sickly  ray, 
Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 
And  the  dying  mortals'  groan 
Startles  the  Night  on  her  dusky  throne 
Come,  come,  sister  mine ! 
Glidina;  on  the  pale  moonshine : 
We  '11  ride  at  ease. 
On  the  tainted  breeze, 
And  oh  !  our  sport  will  be  divine. 
44G 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE 


The  Goddess  of  Melancholy  adraiices  out  of  a  dctp 
Glen,  in  the  rear,  habited  in  blacTc,  and  covered  with 
a  thick  Veil. — She  speaks. 

Sister,  from  my  dark  abode, 
Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad, 
Hither  I  come  at  thy  command  : 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  I 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me. 
Come,  lei  us  speed  our  way 
Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play. 
To  charnel-houses,  church-yards  drear, 
Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
A  lasting  grin  on  a  throne  of  bones. 
And  skim  along  the  blue  tomb-stones. 
^         Come,  let  us  speed  away. 

Tiay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me : 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
^Mle^e  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way ! 
Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  furnish  food  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  smooth  the  way  for  me  ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave. 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist!  sister,  hist!  who  comes  here? 
Oh !  I  know  her  by  that  tear. 
By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair  : 

She  is  mine, 

And  she  is  thine, 
Now^  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 

CONSUMPTION. 

In  the  dismal  night-air  drest, 
I  will  creep  into  her  breast ! 
Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skin, 
And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes, — 
When  they  sparkle  most,  she  dies ! 
Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath, — 
Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death ! 
Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her, 
She  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  her ! 
The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal-bed  ; 
The  winding-sheet  must  wrap  her  head  : 
The  w^hispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sigh. 
For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie ; 

The  worm  it  will  riot 

On  heavenly  diet. 
When  death  has  deflowcr'd  her  eye. 

[They  vanish 
Wliile  Consumption  speaks,  Angelina  enters 

ANGELINA. 

With '  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 


1  With  how  sad  step?,  O  moon,  thou  chmb'st  the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney. 


Dost  thou,  wan  Moon '  w\nn  thy  way  advance 
In  the  blue  welkin's  vault! — Pale  wanderer! 
Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 
That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace. 
Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 
Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  b(jy,  forsook 
Thy  widow'd  breast ! — on  w  hich  the  spoiler  oft 
Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 
Fantastic  pillow'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 
Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurt&in'd  round 
With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ? — W^an  traveller. 
How  like  thy  fate  to  mine ! — yet  I  have  still 
One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st ; 
My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  kind  forget  fulness. — My  journey  liere. 
Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless  and  forlorn, 
Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 
Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 
But  thou,  unhappy  Queen !  art  doom'd  to  trace 
Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night, 
While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 
The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  Time ; 
Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 
To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

O  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 

Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal. 

That,  when  possess'd,  it  is  but  lessen'd  grief! 

And  even  then  there 's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 

That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  Hfe, 

But  bears  it  from  the  view. — O !  who  would  shun 

The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 

The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave, 

And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life, 

And  dark  vicissitudes! — Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel, 

And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head, 

My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest. 

And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 

Will  flourish  sweetly. — And  then  they  will  weep 

That  one  so  young,  and  what  they  're  pleased  to  call 

So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon — and  tell 

How  painful  Disappointment's  canker'd  fang 

Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek  : 

Oh,  foolish  ones !  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly. 

Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 

Might  en\y  me  my  rest ! — And  as  for  them, 

Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy. 

May  thus  remembrance  me — they  must  themselves 

Successive  fall. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 
And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
His  graceful  evolutions)  they  not  long 
Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 
Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one. 
Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds. — Some,  in  their  age, 
Ripe  for  the  sickle ;  others  young  like  me. 
And  falling  green  beneath  th'  untimely  stroke. 
Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  church-yard  f()rlorn, 
Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down. 
And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 
And  oh!  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth. 
Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 
Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse. 
And  say  that  I  w  as  gentle,  and  deserved 

447 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 

All,  all  thy  \vrongs ; — and  then  do  thou  forget 

Tlie  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  blest 

As  w  ish  can  make  thee — Laugh,  and  play,  and  sir.g, 

With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 

Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step. — In  this  dark  wood — 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARLY  AGE. 

I've  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 

And  many  other  noble  Grecian, 

Who  wealth  and  palaces  resign'd 

In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find ; 

Maximian's  meal  of  turnip-tops 

(Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops), 

I've  also  read  of,  without  wonder; 

But  such  a  cursed  egregious  blunder, 

As  that  a  man  of  wit  and  sense. 

Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence — 

Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids, 

For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades, 

I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 

Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense ; 

That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  fell, 

And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt. 

Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure, 

To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure ; 

And,  metamorphosed  lo  an  alley  duck, 

Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 

Oh!  'tis  beyond  my  comprehension! 

A  courtier  throwing  up  his  pension, — 

A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee, — 

A  parson  giving  charity, — 

A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher, — 

Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 

Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool, 

But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 

I  had  not  stared  at  thy  backsliding ; 

But  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in, 

When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 

To  solid  and  exalted  sense  ; 

When  well  I  know  that  on  thy  head 

Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 

I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  too. 

And  wonder  what  this  world  will  come  to! 

Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine  ? 
Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone. 
Of  men  of  parts,  hath  prudence  known  ? 


LINES  ON  READING  TPIE  POEMS  OF  WARTON. 
AGE  FOURTEEN. 

Oh,  Warton !  to  thy  soothing  shell, 
Stretch'd  remote  in  hermit  cell,  '■ 
Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by. 
For  ever  I  could  listening  lie ! 
And,  catching  all  the  Muse's  fire. 
Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  quire, 


What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn' 
The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn. 
The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime. 
And  Melancholy's  mournful  chime  . 
Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
In  thy  ever-lovely  lines. 

Thy  Muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed 
Attuning  sweet  the  Dorian  reed, 
Now  the  lovelorn  swain  complains. 
And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains ; 
Now  the  Sylvan  scenes  appear 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year ; 
Or  the  elegiac  strain 
Softly  sings  of  mental  pain. 
And  mournful  diapasons  sail 
On  the  faintly-dying  gale. 

But  ah!  the  soothing  scene  is  o'er! 

On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar. 
For  now  the  Muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep. 
Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 

In  strains  unheard  before. 
Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
Now,  now  to  heaven's  high  realms  we  fly 

And  §very  throne  explore  ; 
The  soul  entranced,  on  mighty  wings 
With  all  the  poet's  heat  up-springs, 

And  loses  earthly  woes ; 
Till,  all  alarmed  at  the  giddy  height. 
The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 

And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose 


TO  THE  MUSE. 

WRITTEN  AT   THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 

Ill-fated  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen. 

Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene. 

^\lly  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
So  keenly  all  the  scorns — the  jeers  of  life? 
Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 

With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel. 
Of  self  content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound  to  hea. 

Ah  !  who  would  taste  your  self  deluding  joys. 
That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom, 

That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise. 
Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 

What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 
To  persevere  in  paths  that  lead  to  woe  ? 
What  can  induce  them  in  that  route  to  go, 

In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 

And  died  in  misery,  poor  and  woe-begone  ? 

Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found  ; 
I,  who  have  drunk  from  thine  ethereal  rill, 

And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
Upon  Parnassus'  loved  Aonian  hill? 

I,  throueh  whose  soul  the  Muses'  strains  aye  thrill 
Oh  !  I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I  'm  tied  ; 

And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell. 
How  Savage  languish'd,  and  how  Otway  died. 
Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  whate'er  will  betide. 

448 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GRCVE. 


TO  LOVE. 

Why  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
'Tis  love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all, 
That  Virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall? 

Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade, 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd  ? 
Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move, 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 

Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove  : 
'T  is  painful,  though  't  is  sweet,  to  love. 


THE  WANDERING  BOY. 


When  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild  moor, 
And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door ; 
When  the  chiUing  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye, 
Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  Wandering  Boy ! 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest, 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast ; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 

Yet  I  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire ; 
Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower'd  vale, 
Where  the  ring-dove  would  warble  its  sorrowful  tale. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were  summon'd  away, 
And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey ; 
I  fled  from  their  rigor  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  now  I  'm  a  poor  little  Wandering  Boy. 

Tlie  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale, 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale  ; 
I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie. 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 


FRAGMENT 


-The  western  gale, 


Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love. 

Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved. 

Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade 

lie,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat : 
While  rippling  o'er  his  deep-worn  pebble  bed. 
The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet. 
Dispensing  coolness. — On  the  fringed  marge 
Full  many  a  flow'ret  rears  its  head, — or  pink. 
Or  gaudy  daffodil. — 'Tis  here,  at  noon, 
The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire. 
And  lave  them  in  the  fountain :  here,  secure 
From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport ; 
Or,  stretch'd  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 
Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 
Invoke  the  God  of  slumber.     *     *     * 

57  2N2 


And,  hark !  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower. 
Ring  round  the  village-bells !  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud , 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear. 
Melting  in  faintest  music. — They  bespeak 
A  day  of 'jubilee;  and  oft  they  bear, 
Commixt  along  the  unfrequented  shore, 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud, 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude. 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Wliitsuntide, 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld  ! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols. — All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance 
On  the  smoolh-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries  : 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  laboring  moon, 
Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence, 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest. — Then  anon 
Tell  of  uncharnell'd  spectres,  seen  to  ghde 
Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path, 
Startling  the  'nighted  traveller ;  while  the  sound 
Of  undistinguish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deep'ning  glen. 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 

Oh,  Ignorance ! 
Thou  art  fall'n  man's  best  friend !  With  thee  he  speeda 
In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way. 
And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek ;  or  the  keen  steel 
Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 

Ev'n  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 

I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 

Which  sense  refined  affords — Ev'n  now  my  heart 

Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world. 

Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  shepherd's  weeda. 

With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed,    - 

To  sojourn  in  the  woodland. — Then  my  thought 

Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss, 

That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 

And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 

Such  is  hfe : 
The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair, 
And,  when  attain'd,  another  still  succeeds. 
Far  fairer  than  before, — yet  compass'd  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze. 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 


ODE 

WRITTEN  ON  WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark  !  how  the  merr)'  bells  ring  jocund  roumL 
And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze ; 

Anon  they  thunder  loud 

Full  on  the  musing  ear. 

449 


10 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wafted  in  varying  cadence,  by  the  shore 
Of  the  still  twinkling  river,  they  bespeak 

A  day  of  jubilee, 

An  ancient  holiday. 

And,  lo !  the  rural  revels  are  begun, 
And,  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky. 

On  the  smooth-shaven  green 

Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 

Alas !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Fate, 
That  tells  them  't  is  but  as  an  hour  since  they. 

Who  now  are  in  their  graves, 

Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance  ; 

And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still 
Beneath  the  silent  sod, 
A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 

Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scare 
The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 

To  smile  upon  us  here, 

A  transient  visitor  ? 

Mortals !  be  gladsome  while  ye  have  the  power. 
And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy  ; 

In  time  the  bell  will  toll 

That  warns  ye  to  your  graves. 

I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend 

My  lonesome  way — w  here  Mirth's  obstrejierous  shout 

Shall  not  intrude  to  break 

The  meditative  hour  : 

There  will  I  ponder  on  the  state  of  man. 
Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 

This  day  of  jubilee 

To  sad  Reflection's  shrine  ; 

And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eye  far  beyond 

This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 

Shall  rock  above  the  sod. 

Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 


CANZONET. 


Maiden  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 

Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast : 
Why  should  Horror's  voice  astound  thee, 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest ! 
All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  mayest  slumber  peacefully. 

Maiden !  once  gay  Pleasure  knew  thee  ; 

Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep  : 
Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep  -. 
There  's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  POEM  ON  DESPAIR. 

Some  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 
With  winning  elegance  attune  their  song, 
Form'd  tc  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense, 
And  rharm  tne  soul  with  softest  harmony : 


'Tis  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 

Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity  ; 

Her  heart  light  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 

Pleasure  of  days  to  come. — Memory  too,  then 

Comes  with  her  sister.  Melancholy  sad, 

Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Scenes  never  to  return.' 

Such  subjects  merit  poets  used  to  raise 

The  attic  verse  harmonious ;  but  for  me 

A  deadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand, 

And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 

With  frantic  energy. 

'Tis  wan  Despair  1  sing;  if  sing  I  can 

Of  him  before  whose  blast  the  voice  of  Song, 

And  Mirth,  and  Hope,  and  Happiness,  all  fly. 

Nor  ever  dare  return.     His  notes  are  heard 

At  noon  of  night,  where,  on  the  coast  of  blood. 

The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 

Howls  forth  his  sufferings  to  the  moaning  wind ; 

And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 

Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murderer's  heart. 

He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 

Half-utter'd,  half  suppress'd — 

'Tis  him  I  sing — Despair — terrific  name, 

Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 

Of  timorous  terror — discord  in  the  sound : 

For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this. 

Dare  not  I  woo  the  maids  of  harmony. 

Who  love  to  sit  and  catch  the  soothing  sound 

Of  lyre  ^-Eolian,  or  the  martial  bugle, 

Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 

And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise, 

And  warlike  triumph  :  but  from  scenes  like  mine 

Shrink  they  affrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 

Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 

Hence,  then,  soft  maids. 
And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
By  Heliconia's  sleep-inviting  stream  : 
For  aid  like  yours  I  seek  not ;  't  is  for  powers 
Of  darker  hue  lo  inspire  a  verse  like  mine  I 
'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends! 

Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light. 
And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave ; 
Souls  of  the  damned  ; — Hither,  oh  !  come  and  join 
Th'  infernal  chorus.     'T  is  Despair  I  sing ! 
He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.     Sing,  sing  Despair ! 
Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  power ; 
Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonizing  shrieks. 
Till  the  loud  paean  ring  through  hell's  high  vault. 
And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 


ON  RURAL  SOLITUDE. 

When  wandering,  thoughtful,  my  stray  steps  at  evt 
(Released  from  toil  and  careless  of  their  way). 
Have  reach'd,  unwittingly,  some  rural  spot 
Where  Quiet  dwells  in  cluster'd  cottages. 
Fast  by  a  wood,  or  on  the  river's  marge, 
I  have  sat  down  upon  the  shady  stile, 


1  Alluding  to  the  two  pleasing  poems,  the  Pleasures  of  Hop» 
and  of  Memory.  ^_^ 

450 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


11 


lalf  wearied  with  the  long  and  lonesome  walk, 

\.nd  felt  strange  sadness  steal  upon  the  heart, 

\^nd  unaccountable. — The  rural  smells 

Vnd  sounds  speak  all  of  peacefulness  and  home  ; 

The  lazy  mastiff)  who  my  coming  eyed, 

ifalf  balancing  'twixl  fondness  and  distrust, 

jlecall'd  some  images,  now  half  forgot, 

3f  the  warm  hearth  at  eve,  when  flocks  are  penn'd 

\nd  cattle  housed,  and  every  labor  done. 

And  as  the  twilight's  peaceful  hour  closed  in, 

The  spiral  smoke  ascending  from  the  thatch, 

A.nd  the  eve  sparrow's  last  retiring  chirp. 

Have  brought  a  busy  train  of  hov'ring  thoughts 

To  recollection, — rural  offices, 

[n  younger  days  and  happier  times  perform'd ; 

A.nd  rural  friends,  now  with  their  grave-stones  carved, 

A.nd  tales  which  wore  away  the  winter's  night 

i'^et  fresh  in  memory. — Then  my  thoughts  assume 

A.  different  turn,  and  I  am  e'en  at  home. 

That  hut  is  mine ;  that  cottage  half-embower'd 

With  modest  jessamine,  and  that  sweet  spot 

Of  garden-ground,  where,  ranged  in  meet  array, 

Srow  countless  sweets,  the  wall-flower  and  the  pink 

A.nd  the  thick  thyme-bush — even  that  is  mine : 

And  that  old  mulberry  that  shades  the  court, 

Has  been  my  joy  from  very  childhood  up. 


IN  hollow  music  sighing  through  the  glade. 
The  breeze  of  autumn  strikes  the  startled  ear. 

And  fancy,  pacing  through  the  woodland  shade. 
Hears  in  the  gust  the  requiem  of  the  year. 

As  with  lone  tread  along  the  whisp'ring  grove 
I  list  the  moan  of  the  capricious  wind, 
too,  o'er  fancy's  milky-way  would  rove. 
But  sadness  chains  to  earth  my  pensive  mind. 

When  by  the  huddling  brooklet's  secret  brim 
I  pause,  and  woo  the  dreams  of  Helicon, 

Sudden  my  saddest  thoughts  revert  to  him 

Who  taught  jJiat  brook  to  wind,  and  now  is  gone. 

When  by  the  poet's  sacred  urns  I  kneel. 
And  rapture  springs  exultant  to  my  reed. 

The  psan  dies,  and  sadder  measures  steal. 
And  grief  and  Montague  demand  the  meed. 


Thou  mongrel,  who  dost  show  thy  teeth,  and  yelp. 

And  bay  the  harmless  stranger  on  his  way. 
Yet,  when  the  wolf  appears,  dost  roar  for  help, 

And  scamperest  quickly  from  the  bloody  fray ; 
Dare  but  on  my  fair  fame  to  cast  a  slur, 

And  I  will  make  thee  know,  unto  thy  pain, 
Thou  vile  old  good-for-nothing  cur ! 

I,  a  Laconian  dog,  can  bite  again : 
Yes,  I  can  make  the  Daunian  tiger  flee. 
Much  more  a  bragging,  foul-mouth'd  whelp  like  thee. 
Beware  Lycambes',  or  Bupalus'  fate — 
The  wicked  still  shall  meet  my  deadly  hate ; 
And  know,  when  once  I  seize  upon  my  prey, 

I  do  not  languidly  my  wrongs  bemoan ; 
I  do  not  whine  and  cant  the  time  away. 

But,  with  revengeful  gripe,  I  bite  him  to  the  bone. 


ODE 
TO  THE  MORNING  STAR. 
Many  invoke  pale  Hesper's  pensive  sway. 
When  rest  supine  leans  o'er  the  pillowing  clouds 
And  the  last  tinklings  come 
From  the  safe  folded  flock. 

But  me,  bright  harbinger  of  coming  day. 
Who  shone  the  first  on  the  primeval  morn : 

Me,  thou  delightest  more — 

Chastely  luxuriant. 

Let  the  poor  silken  sons  of  slothful  pride 
Press  now  their  downy  couch  in  languid  ease, 

While  visions  of  dismay 

Flit  o'er  their  troubled  brain. 

Be  mine  to  view,  awake  to  nature's  charms. 
Thy  paly  flame  evanish  from  the  sky. 

As  gradual  day  usurps 

The  welkin's  glowing  bounds. 

Mine,  to  snuff"  up  the  pure  ambrosial  breeze. 
Which  bears  aloft  the  rose-bound  car  of  morn. 

And  mark  his  early  flight 

The  rustling  skylark  wing. 

And  thou,  Hygeia,  shalt  my  steps  attend. 
Thou,  whom  distracted,  I  so  lately  woo'd. 

As  on  my  restless  bed 

Slow  past  the  tedious  night ; 

And  slowly,  by  the  taper's  sickly  gleam. 
Drew  my  dull  curtain  ;  and  with  anxious  eye 

Strove  through  the  veil  of  night 

To  mark  the  tardy  morn. 

Tliou,  Health,  shalt  bless  me  in  my  early  walk, 
As  o'er  the  upland  slope  I  brush  the  dew. 

And  feel  the  genial  thrill 

Dance  in  my  lighten'd  veins. 

And  as  I  mark  the  Cotter  from  his  shed 

Peep  out  with  jocund  face — thou,  too.  Content, 

Shalt  steal  into  my  breast, 

Thy  mild,  thy  placid  sway. 

Star  of  the  morning !  these,  thy  joys,  I  '11  share, 
As  rove  my  pilgrim  feet  the  sylvan  haunts  ; 

While  to  thy  blushing  shrine 

Due  orisons  shall  rise. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  PACIFIC; 

OR,  THE  HORRORS  OF  UTTER  SOLITUDE. 

Oh  I  who  can  paiht  the  unspeakable  dismay 
Of  utter  Solitude,  shut  out  from  all 
Of  social  intercourse. — Oh  I  who  can  say 
What  haggard  horrors  hold  in  shuddering  thrall 
Him,  who  by  some  Carvaggian  waterfall 
A  shipwreck'd  man  hath  scoop'd  his  desert  cave, 
Where  Desolation,  in  her  giant  pall. 
Sits  frowTiing  on  the  ever-falling  wave 
That  wooes  the  wretch  to  dig,  by  her  loi  d  shore,  his 
grave. 

^1 


12 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  youthful  pilgrim,  whose  untoward  feet 
Too  early  hath  been  torn  in  lile's  rough  way, 
Thou,  who  endow'd  with  Fancy's  holiest  heat, 
Seest  dark  Misibrtune  cloud  thy  morning  ray : 
Though  doom'd  in  penury  to  pine  thy  day, 
O  seek  not, — seek  not  in  the  glooms  to  shroud 
Of  waste,  or  wilderness — a  cast-away — 
Where  noise  intrudes  not,  save  when  in  the  cloud, 
Riding  sublime,  the  storm  roars  fearfully,  and  loud. 

Though  man  to  man  be  as  the  ocean  shark, 

Reckless,  and  unrelentingly  severe  ; 

Though  friendship's  cloak  must  veil  the  pur])0se 
dark, 

While  the  red  poniard  glimmers  in  the  rear. 

Yet,  is  society  most  passing  dear. 

Though  mix'd  with  clouds,  its  sunshine  gleams  re- 
fined 

Will  through  the  glooms  most  pleasantly  appear. 

And  soothe  thee,  when  thy  melancholy  mind 
Must  ask  for  comfort  else  of  the  loud  pitiless  wind. 

Yet  is  it  distant  from  the  Muse's  theme 
To  bid  thee  fly  the  rural  covert  still. 
And  plunge  impetuous  in  the  busy  stream, 
Of  crow  ds  to  take  of  *  *  joys  thy  fill. 
Ah  I  no,  she  wooes  thee  to  attune  thy  quill 
In  some  low  village's  remote  recess, 
Wliere  thou  may'st  learn — O  enviable  skill, — 
To  heal  the  sick,  and  soothe  the  comf()rtless. 
To  give,  and  to  receive — be  blessed,  and  to  bless. 

God  unlo  men  hath  difllercnt  powers  assign'd — 
There  be,  who  love  the  city's  dull  turmoil ; 
There  be,  who,  proud  of  an  ambitious  mind. 
From  lonely  Quiet's  hermit- walks  recoil : 
Leave  thou  these  insects  to  their  grov'lling  toil — 
Thou,  whom  retired  leisure  best  can  please ; 
For  thee,  the  hazle  copse's  verdant  aisle. 
And  summer  bower,  befitting  studious  ease. 
Prepare  a  keener  bliss  than  they  shall  ever  seize. 

Lo,  the  grey  morning  climbs  the  eastern  lower, 
The  dew-drop  glistening  in  her  op'ning  eye; 
Now  on  the  upland  lawn  salute  the  hour 
That  wakes  the  warbling  woods  to  melody  ; 
There  sauntering  on  the  stile,  emlxtwer'd  high 
W'ith  fragrant  hawthorn,  and  the  gadding  brier. 
Pore  on  thy  hook,  or  cast  by  fits  thine  eye 
Where  far  below,  hill,  dale,  and  village  spire. 
And  brook,  and  mead,  and  wood,  far  from  the  sight 
retire. 

But  what  are  these,  forsaken  and  forlorn  ? 
'T  is  animation  breathes  the  subtle  spell — 
Hark!  from  the  echoing  wood  the  mellow  horn 
Winds  rrjund  from  hill  to  hill,  with  rlistant  sw^ell  ; 
The  ])easant's  matin  rises  from  the  dell ; 
The  heavy  w-agon  creaks  u]r)on  its  way, 
■While  tinkling  soft  the  silver-tuning  bell 
Floats  on  the  gale,  or  dies  by  fits  away 
From   the  sweet  straw-roof  d  grange,  deep  buried 
from  the  day. 

Man  was  not  made  to  pine  in  solitude, 
Fnsepulchred,  and  far  from  converse  ]»laced. 
Not  for  himself  alone,  untamed  and  rude. 
To  live  the  Bittern  of  the  desert  waste  ; 


It  is  not  his  (by  manlier  virtues  graced) 
To  pore  upon  the  noontide  brook,  and  sigh,  f, 

And  weep  for  aye  o'er  sorrow  uneffaced  ;  N 

Him  social  duties  call  the  tear  to  dry, 
And  wake  the  nobler  powers  of  usefulness  to  ply. 

The  savage  broods  that  in  the  forest  shroud, 
The  Pard  and  Lion  mingle  with  their  kind  ; 
And,  oh,  shall  man,  with  nobler  powers  endow'd 
Shall  he,  to  nature's  strongest  impulse  blind, 
Bury  in  shades  his  proud  immortal  mind  ? 
Like  the  sweet  flower,  that  on  some  steep  rock 

thrown. 
Blossoms  forlorn,  rock'd  by  the  mountain  wind ; 
A  little  while  it  decks  the  rugged  stone. 
Then,  withering,  fades  away,  unnoticed  and  unknown! 

For  ye  who,  fill'd  with  fancy's  wildest  dreams. 
Run  from  the  imperious  voice  of  human  pride. 
And  shrinking  quick  from  woe's  unheeded  screaraa, 
Long  in  some  desert-cell  your  heads  to  hide, 
Where  you  may  muse  from  morn  to  eventide. 
Free  from  the  taunts  of  contumely  and  scorn, 
Irom  sights  of  woe — the  power  lo  soothe  denied. 
Attend  the  song  which  in  life's  early  morn — 
***** 


TO  THE  WIND 

AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Not  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear. 
Blasts  of  the  night  I  ye  howl,  as  now 
My  shudd'ring  casement  loud 
With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 

Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe. 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush ; 
And  when  the  jessing  gale 
Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 


THE  EVE  OF  DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
I. 

Silence  of  Death — portentous  calm. 

Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly. 
Denote  that  your  void  fijreruns  a  storm. 

That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne. 

The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn. 

His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest. 
And  the  widow'd  wife  of  Larrendill  will  bea»  bar  < 
naked  breast 

n. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep, 

No  softly  ruflfling  zephyrs  fly ; 
But  nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep. 

For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 

But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around  ; 
Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak, 

On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 

452 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


13 


luiow,  I  know,  what  this  silence  means ; 

I  know  what  the  raven  saith — 
trike,  oh,  ye  bards!  the  melancholy  harp. 

For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 

III. 

ehold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 

The  shades  of  our  fathers  glide! 
'here  Morven  fled,  with  the  blood-drench'd  hair, 

And  Colma  with  grey  side. 
\0  gale  around  its  coolness  flings. 

Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees  ; 
ind,  hark !  how  the  harp's  unvisited  strings 

Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze ! 
r  is  done  !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood  I 

He  will  never  set  more  to  the  brave  ; 
jCt  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death — 

For  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 


THANATOS. 

Oh  !  who  would  cherish  life, 
\nd  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay, 

Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
iVhere  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day  ; 

And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
Conceal'd,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
Where  pit-falls  lie  in  ev'ry  flowery  way. 

And  syrens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles ! 
Hateful  it  is  to  me, 

I  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife  ; 
I  'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
Dinning  the  ear — away — away  wilh  life  ! 

And  welcome,  oh!  thou  silent  maid. 

Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 

Where  never  daylight's  dazzling  ray 

Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway ; 

And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  sleep. 

In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 

That  all  thy  senses  stupified. 

Are  to  marble  petrified. 

Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee ! 

Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 

Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 

Nor  the  fatal  hellebore  ; 

Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure. 

His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 

Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb. 

In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 

I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state. 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great  : 

Over  me,  magnificent, 

Carve  a  stately  monument : 

Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 

With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray. 

And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 

Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 

Duly  too  at  close  of  day. 

Let  the  pealing  organ  play  ; 

And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll, 

Chaunt  a  vesper  to  my  soul  ; 

Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be, 

Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery ! 


ATIIANATOS. 

Away  with  Dealh! — away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  cliilling  damps, 

Impervious  to  the  day, 
Where  Nature  sinks  into  inanity. 
How  can  the  soul  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave, 

And  yield  wi(h  joy  the  vital  fire. 
To  moulder  in  the  grave  ? 

Yet  mortal  life  is  sad. 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky ; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry 

Away  w  ith  mortal  life ! 
But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 
The  seraph  Immortality  ! 
Hail  the  heavenly  bowers  of  peace ! 
Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 
Wild  Life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er. 
The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more  ; 
But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 
Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 
Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers. 
Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers ; 
But  the  azure  heavens  display 
The  everlasting  smile  of  day  ; 
Where  the  choral  seraph  choir, 
Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre  ; 
And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 
LuU'd  by  distant  symphonies. 
Oh !  to  think  of  meeting  there 
The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear 
The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored. 
To  our  widow'd  arms  restored  ; 
And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever. 
Given  to  us  again  for  ever! 
Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life. 
And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife ; 
Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly 
A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  He, 
Wlien  the  glorious  prospect  lies 
Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  ? 


MUSIC. 

WRITTEN  BETWEEN  THE  AGES  OF  FOURTEEN  ANT> 
FIFTEEN.  WITH  A  FEW  SUBSEQUENT  VERBAl  AL 
TERATIONS. 

Music,  all-powerful  o'er  the  human  mind, 

Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm 

Soothe  anxious  Care  on  sleepless  couch  reclined. 
And  e'en  fierce  Anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 

At  her  command,  the  various  passions  lie 
She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace 

Melts  the  charm'd  soul  to  thrilling  ecstacy, 

And  bids  the  jarring  world's  harsh  clangor  cease. 

Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise  ; 

Infuse  new  ardor,  and  with  youthful  fire 

Urge  on  the  warrior  grey  with  length  of  days. 

453 


14 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Far  better  she,  when  with  her  soothing  lyre 
She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp, 

And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  Ire, 

Looses  the  bloody  breasl-plale's  iron  clasp. 

With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam, 

At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline. 

And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam, 
In  calm  Seclusion's  hermit-walks  recline. 

Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise, 
Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  join'd. 

With  rapture  thrill'd  each  w'orldly  passion  dies. 
And  pleased  Attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 

Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire. 
Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell ; 

Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 

Romantic  sounds !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give, 

That  heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the 
soul, 

With  joy  I  'd  yield  each  sensual  wish  to  live 
For  ever  'neath  your  undefiled  control. 

Oh !  surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent. 

To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife. 

To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent. 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 


ODE 
TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 


-Cum  luit  imbriferum  ver: 


Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  tur{?ent : 

CunQta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret 

Virgil. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labor's  child. 
Hail !  oh  hail !  I  greet  thy  beam. 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream. 
And  gilds  the  stravv-thalch'd  hamlet  wide, 
Where  Innocence  and  Peace  reside ; 
T  is  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng. 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky. 
Where  no  thin  vapor  intercepts  thy  ray. 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Reasing  't  is,  oh !  modest  Moon  ! 
Now  the  Night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie. 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
i''anning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
ftipen'd  by  the  summer's  heat  ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 


And  thinking  soon. 

Oh,  modest  Moon ! 
How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load. 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home ! 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee. 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity  : 

May  no  winds  careering  high. 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky. 

But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 

When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  0  Hafvj 

vest  Moon !  / 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies. 
The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes, 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 
Oh  !  may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy  ! 
God  of  the  Winds !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer. 
And  while  the  Moon  of  Harvest  shines,  thy  blus- 
tering whirlwind  spare- 
Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 
Leave  I  Sleep's  dull  power  to  woo: 
Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed 
While  fev'rish  dreams  surround  your  head 
I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade. 
Penetrate  the  thickest  shade. 
Wrapt  in  Contemplation's  dreams. 
Musing  high  on  holy  themes. 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune. 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon ! 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE   OF  FOURTEEN. 

Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes. 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly  ! 
Lo!  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly ; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by  ; 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep. 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

I  have  cover'd  him  with  rushes. 

Water-flags,  and  branches  dry; 
Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep. 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

Still  he  sleeps  ;  he  will  not  waken ; 

Fastly  closed  is  his  eye  ; 
Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 

Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 


454 


POEMS  WRITTEx^  BEFORE  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


15 


Alas  !  he  is  dead, 
He  has  chose  his  death-bed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ? 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Could'st  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
No,  my  love,  thou  bid'st  me  die. 
Thou  bid'st  me  seek 
Thy  death-bed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips. 

On  thy  breast  I  '11  lay  my  head, 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death-dirge, 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread  ; 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet. 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat. 
Oh  I  so  softly,  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SOLITARY'S  SONG 
TO  THE  NIGHT. 

Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high. 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song ! 
A  melancholy  song  I 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  morn. 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam. 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 

I  've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year. 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 
I  've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  linger'd  in  the  shade, 
From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam ;  and  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door. 
To  sing  my  evening  song. 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  grey  morn  high 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow. 
And  tried  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  of  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed, 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet. 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 

I  hail'd  tliy  star-beam  mild. 

The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me. 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  I 
But  oh !  when  darkness  robes  the  heav'ns. 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me; 
And  oh  !  I  am  not  then  alone — 
A  solitary  man. 


And  when  the  blust'ring  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  wotids  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat, 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife ; 
And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home. 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  se? 
The  whisp'ring  of  the  boding  trees. 
The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 

The  condor's  hollow  scream. 


ELEGY 

Occasioned  hy  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill,  who  was  drowned 
in  the  river  Trent,  while  bathing,  9ih  August,  1802. 

He  sunk — the  impetuous  river  roll'd  along. 
The  sullen  wave  betray 'd  his  dying  breath;' 

And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among. 

The  gale  of  evening  touch'd  the  chords  of  death 

Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  did'st  not  thou  appear, 
To  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave  ? 

Alas !  too  late  thou  earnest  to  embalm  his  bier, 
And  deck  with  water-flags  his  early  grave. 

Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey. 
Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride ; 

While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  stay. 
And  ask  the  swoln  corse  from  the  murdering  tide. 

The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye. 

The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  proved, 

I  mark  them  rise — I  mark  the  gen'ral  sigh ; 
Unhappy  youth !  and  vvert  thou  so  beloved  ? 

On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  the  Trent's  green  brink. 
When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade. 

On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 

Of  thee,  as  early  I,  with  vagrant  feet, 

Haii  the  grey-sandal'd  morn  in  Colwick's  vale 

Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet 
And  wild-wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  talc. 

And  oh !  ye  nymphs  of  Pseon  !  who  preside 
O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream. 

Guard  ye  in  future  well  the  halcyon  tide 

From  the  rude  death-shriek,  and  the  dying  scream 


1  This  line  may  appear  somewhat  obscure.  It  alludes  to  the 
last  bubbline  of  the  water,  aftor  a  person  has  snnk.  caused  by 
the  final  expiration  of  the  air  from  the  lungs  :  inhalation,  bf 
iatroducing  the  water,  produces  sutfocation. 

455 


button  (Kvo4)e;  fin5f  otivcv  IJocmci. 


DEDICATION. 


To  Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  the 
following  trifling  effusions  of  a  very  youthful  Muse 
are,  by  permission,  dedicated  by  her  Grace's  much 
obliged  and  grateful  servant, 

Henry  Kirke  White. 
Nottingham. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  attempts  in  verse  are  laid  before 
the  Public  with  extreme  diffidence.  The  author  is 
very  conscious  that  the  juvenile  efforts  of  a  youth, 
who  has  not  received  the  polish  of  Academical  dis- 
cipline, and  who  has  been  but  sparingly  blessed  w  ith 
opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of  scholastic  pur- 
suits, must  necessarily  be  defective  in  the  accuracy 
and  finished  elegance  which  mark  the  works  of  the 
man  who  has  passed  his  life  in  the  retirement  of  his 
study,  furnishing  his  mind  with  images,  and  at  the 
same  time  attaining  the  power  of  disposing  those 
imases  to  the  best  advantage. 

The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  Boy,  from  his 
thirteenth  year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisition  of 
literary  information,  but  in  the  more  active  business  of 
life,  must  not  be  expected  to  exhibit  any  considerable 
portion  of  the  correctness  of  a  Virgil,  or  the  vigorous 
compression  of  a  Horace.  Men  are  not,  I  believe, 
frequently  known  to  bestow  much  labor  on  their 
amusements :  and  these  Poems  were,  most  of  them, 
written  merely  to  beguile  a  leisure  hour,  or  to  fill  up 
the  languid  intervals  of  studies  of  a  severer  nature. 
Jlai  TO  oiKcios  tpyov  ayaTrao),  "  Every  one  loves  his 
own  work,"  says  the  Stagyrite ;  but  it  was  no  over- 
weening affection  of  this  kind  which  induced  this 
publication.  Had  the  Author  relied  on  his  own  judg- 
ment only,  these  Poems  would  not,  in  all  probability, 
ever  have  seen  the  light. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his 
motives  for  this  publication  ?  He  answers — simply 
these :  The  facilitation,  through  its  means,  of  those 
studies  which,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  have  been 
the  principal  objects  of  his  ambition ;  and  the  in- 
crease of  the  capacity  to  pursue  those  inclinations 
which  may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honorable  station 
in  the  scale  of  society. 

The  principal  Poem  in  this  little  collection  (Clifton 
Grove)  is,  he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers  and  harmo- 
nious coherency  of  parts.  It  is,  however,  merely  to 
be  regarded  as  a  description  of  a  nocturnal  ramble 
in  that  charming  retreat,  accompanied  with  such  re- 
flections as  the  scene  iiaturally  suggested.  It  was 
written  twelve  months  ago,  when  the  Author  was 
in  his  sixteenth  year : — The  Miscellanies  are  some 
pf  them  the   productions  of  a  very  early  age. — Of 


the  Odes,  that  "To  an  early  Primrose"  was  writt 
at  thirteen — the  others  are  of  a  later  date. — T 
Sonnets  are  chiefly  irregular  ;  they  have,  perhaps, 
other  claim  to  that  specif  c  denomination,  than  if 
they  consist  only  of  fourteen  lines. 

Such  are  the  Poems  towards  which  I  entreat  t 
lenity  of  the  PubUc.  The  Critic  will  doubtless  fi 
in  them  much  to  condemn  ;  he  may  likewise  ix)ssi! 
discover  something  to  commend.  Let  him  scan  i 
faults  with  an  indulgent  eye,  and  in  the  work  of  tl 
correction  which  I  invite,  let  him  remember  he 
holding  the  iron  Mace  of  Criticism  over  the  fliir 
superstructure  of  a  youth  of  seventeen ;  and, 
membering  that,  may  he  forbear  from  crushing, 
too  much  rigor,  the  painted  butterfly  whose  transi* 
colors  may  otherwise  be  capable  of  affording  a  r 
ment's  innocent  amusement. 


1  This,  and  the  following  Pooms,  are  reprinted  from  the  liule 
Volume  which  the  author  published  in  1803. 


TO  MY  LYRE. 


Thou  simple  Lyre ; — ^Thy  music  wild 

Has  served  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
And  many  a  lonely  night  has  'guiled, 
When  even  pain  has  own'd,  and  smiled, 
Its  fascinating  power. 

Yet,  oh  my  Lyre !  the  busy  crowd 

Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones : 
Them  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
Engross, — and  thou  and  I  must  shroud 
Where  dark  oblivion  'thrones. 

No  hand,  thy  diapa.son  o'er, 

Well  skill  d,  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime 
For  me,  no  academic  lore 
Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour, 

Or  build  the  polish'd  rhyme. 

Yet  thou  to  Sylvan  themes  can'st  soar ; 

Thou  know'st  to  charm  the  woodlarid  trai 
The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  still  the  billowy  main. 

These  honors.  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep, 
I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
And  gentle  Zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
Thy  solemn  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 
Beneath  the  alder-tree. 

This  little  dirge  will  please  me  more 

Than  the  full  requiem's  swelling  peal ; 
Vd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 
For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 

Yet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay, 

Perhaps  from  me  debarr'd  : 
And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone. 
Which,  snatch'd  from  learning's  labor'<l  thro 

Adorns  the  accepted  bard. 

^56 


CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


17 


And  O!  if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 
Where  Cam  or  Isis  winds  along. 

Perchance,  inspired  with  ardor  chaste, 

I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste 
To  listen  to  my  song. 

Oh!  then,  my  little  friend,  thy  style 

I  Id  change  to  happier  lays, 
Oh !  then,  the  cloister' d  glooms  should  smile, 
And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 

Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 


CLIFTON  GROVE. 

A  SKETCH  IN  VERSE. 

Lo !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light, 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke. 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke  ; 
No  more  hoarse  clamoring  o'er  the  uplifted  head. 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  vvind-rock'd  bed  ; 
Still'd  is  the  village  hum — the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds. 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below. 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow ; 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late, 
iOft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  ; 
Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale, 
!  Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  do\A-ny  gale. 

j  Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 
i  And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire, 
I  And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  lire  ; 
1  Or  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 
'  And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies, 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  laboring  loom, 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 
;  And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
i  The  stated  course  of  customary  sin  : 
Now,  now  my  solitarj"^  way  I  bend 
,  Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend. 
And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 
I  Bespeak,  blest  Clifton !  thy  sublime  domain. 
[  Here  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
j  I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour ; 
I  To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease, 
j  And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 
'  And  oh !  thou  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 
I  Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh ! 
;  Genius  of  woodland  shades!  whose  mild  control 
'  Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 
;  Come  with  thy  wonted  ardor,  and  inspire 
j  My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallow'd  fire. 
,  And  thou  too.  Fancy !  from  thy  starry  sphere, 
!  Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear, 
!  Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 
j  Veil'd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight, 
i  At  thy  command,  the  gale  that  passes  by 
I  Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 
i  Thou  wavest  thy  wand,  and  lo!  what  forms  appear 
!  On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career ! 
I  The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale, 
I  And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moonbeams  sail. 
58  2  0 


This  gloomy  alcove,  darkling  to  the  sight. 

Where  meeting  trees  erefjte  eternal  night ; 

Save  when,  from  yonder  stream,  the  sinmy  ray. 

Reflected,  gives  a  dubious  gloani  of  day ; 

Recalls,  endearing  to  my  allcr'd  mind, 

Times  when,  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined, 

I  watch'd  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood  ; 

Or  lured  the  robin  lo  its  scalter'd  food  ; 

Or  woke  with  song  the  woodhmd  echo  wild, 

And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smil(>d. 

How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 

Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day. 

Here  would  I  run,  a  visionar\'  boy. 

When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky 

And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 

Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm; 

And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  soul. 

His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunder's  roll. 

With  secret  joy  I  view'd,  with  vivid  glare. 

The  volley'd  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air ; 

And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled. 

With  awful  pleasure  big, — I  heard  and  smiled. 

Beloved  remembrance  I — Memory  which  endears 

This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 

Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 

In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  blest. 

While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd. 

In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 

And  thou  too.  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 

Shoots  with  ele(  trie  swiftness  through  the  frame. 

Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  uptunVd  eye. 

And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by. 

The  woods  that  wave,  the  grey  owl's  silken  flight. 

The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night : 

Congenial  calms,  more  welcome  to  my  breast 

Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  drest. 

To  heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers,  I  raise. 

That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days. 

Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 

May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life. 

And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  \\a\e', 

May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 

Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 

A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 

No  more  above  the  embracing  branches  meet, 

No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet. 

But  seen  deep  down  the  cliff's  impending  side. 

Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide 

Dim  is°my  upland  path,— across  the  Green 

Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 

The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds 

Where  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful  heads, 

And  beds  of  violets,  blooming  'mid  the  trees. 

Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 

Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  si^ht 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow. 
And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know. 
Why  docs  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms? 
Why  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings. 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  spnngi- 

457 


18 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Could  he  bul  feel  how  sueet,  how  free  from  slrife, 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
IVo  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  vvould  no  more  allure, 
But  the  sweet  potion  he  was  wont  to  sip 
Wouhl  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 
Fair  Nature !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms. 
Fain  would  I  clasp  for  ever  in  my  arms ! 
Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Tliough  not  for  me  't  was  Heaven's  divine  command 
To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land, 
Yet  still  my  lot  is  blest,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 

Has  ever  shunn'd  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss, 

Who,  still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain, 

Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain : 

Though  were  his  sight  convey'd  from  zone  to  zone. 

He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 

Yet  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 

These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me : 

For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burthen  bear, 

For  me  yon  laborer  guides  the  shining  share, 

While  happy  I  in  idle  ease  recline. 

And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 

This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told. 

Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 

Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  Fortune  placed. 

Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste. 

How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height. 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight ! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  hill's  remotest  bound, 
My  ken  is  borne ;  while  o'er  my  head  serene. 
The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene  ; 
Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade, 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 

Behind  me,  lo !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies. 

The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes. 

No  more,  where  late  the  social  fagot  blazed, 

The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised. 

But  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's'  star 

The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car: 

The  church-bell  tolls,  deep-sounding  down  the  glade. 

The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made ! 

The  simple  plow-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 

Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round. 

Then  sto|is  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes, 

Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 

Now  ceased  the  long,  the  monitory  toll. 

Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul  ; 

Save  when,  dislurb'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright. 

The  deep-mouth'd  inastiflT  bays  the  troubled  night : 

Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale, 

The  creaking  sign-post  whistles  to  the  gale, 

A  little  onward  let  me  bend  mv  way 

Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 

That  spot,  oh !  yet  it  is  the  very  same  ; 

That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  il  name : 


1  The  constellation  Delphinus.  For  authority  for  this  appel- 
alion,  vide  Ovid's  Fasti,  B.  xi  113. 


There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom, 

There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume. 

And  in  the  branch  that  rears  alKjve  the  rest 

The  robin  unmolested  builds  ils  nest. 

'T  was  here,  when  Hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 

In  vivid  colors  every  prospect  drest; 

'T  was  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams. 

And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  anrlent  seat. 

Why,  bland  deceiver!  not  renew  the  cheat? 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve. 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive  ? 

Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'erspread. 

And  thou  too,  gay  Seducer !  art  thou  fled  ? 

Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe. 

Yet  thou  couldst  'guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear. 

And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way 

Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 

How  gay,  in  youth,  the  fluttering  future  seems!       v 

How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams!       I 

The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  light,  ' 

And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 

Yet  sopne  can  rise  superior  to  their  pain. 

And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain; 

While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey. 

Unmoved,  iheir  fairest  prospects  fade  away  : 

But  yet  a  few  there  be, — too  soon  o'ercast ! 

Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 

And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  w  hich  breaks  the  glot»ni 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows. 

Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows ; 

So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  Avaste, 

Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 

Now,  pnss'd  whate'er  the  upland  heights  displaj', 
Down  the  steep  cliflT  I  wind  my  devious  way, 
Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat. 
The  timid  hare  from  its  accustom'd  seat. 
And  oh!  how  sweet  this  walk  o'crhung  with  wooJ 
That  winds  the  margin  of  the  .solemn  flood ! 
What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight ! 
What  rising  views  prolong  the  calm  delight! 
The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephjr  bent 
The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead, 
The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed 
The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile. 
And,  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile. 
Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes. 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise 
High  up  the  cliflJ'the  varied  groves  ascend, 
And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds,  arise. 
What  glimmering  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes ! 
Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed. 
The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  mv  drooping  head, 
And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 
Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 
Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 
Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night, 
vSave  when  is  heard,  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest. 
The  owl,  dull-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon. 
Now  riding,  cloud-rapt,  near  her  highest  noon : 

458 


i 


CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


19 


Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southering,  hither  rides, 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 
How  oft,  in  this  sequester'd  spot,  when  youth 
Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth. 
Have  I  long  lingered,  while  the  nulk-maid  sung 
The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung? 
That  tale,  so  sad  !  which  still  to  memory  dear, 
From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear, 
And  (luH'd  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 
Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul. 
These  hallow'd  shades, — these  trees  that  woo  the 

wind. 
Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 

A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime, 

Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time. 

Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 

Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  Maid, 

The  beauteous  Margaret ;  for  her  each  swain 

Confest  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 

In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair, 

Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 

No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 

Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed  ; 

No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck 

His  favorite  wether's  unpolluted  neck. 

But  listless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclined, 

He  mix'd  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 

Bemoan'd  his  helpless  love ;  or,  boldly  bent. 

Far  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went. 

O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease,  to  roam, 

A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain ; 

Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 

Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 

The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows. 

As  here,  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 

Enaraour'd  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 

Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name ; 
T  was  there  the  blushing  maid  confess'd  her  flame. 
DowTi  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie. 
When  evening  slumber'd  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
Each  bears  mementoes  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 
With  the  fallen  honors  of  the  mourning  trees. 
The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustom'd  bovver, 
And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour, 
Yet  Bateman  came  not; — o'er  the  woodland  drear. 
Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career; 
And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods. 
The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sullen  floods ; 
The  night  was  dark;  as,  now  and  then,  the  gale 
Paused  for  a  moment, — Margaret  listen'd,  pale ; 
But  through  the  covert,  to  her  anxious  ear. 
No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near. 
Strange  fears  now  fiU'd  her  breast, — she  knew  not 

why. 
She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 
She  hears  a  noise, — 'tis  he, — he  comes  at  last; — 
Alas  !  't  was  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past : 
But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 
tightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound ; 
T  is  Bateman's  self, — he  springs  into  her  arms, 
T  is  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 


"  Yet  why  this  silence  ? — I  have  waited  long 
And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 
And,  now  thou  'rt  here,  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak, 
Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 
Say,  what  is   wrong  ? " — Now,   through  a   parting 

cloud, 
The  pale  moon  peer'd  from  her  tempestuous  shroud. 
And  Bateman's  face  was  seen  : — 't  was  deadly  while, 
And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sTght. 
"  Oh,  speak,  my  love  !  "  again  the  maid  conjured  ; 
"  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  woe  immured  ?" 
He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell. 
Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinish'd  accents  fell ; 
When  thus,  at  last,  reluctantly  he  broke 
His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke : 
"  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance 
I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance. 
For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 
Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 
Should  honors  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me. 
And,  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined. 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind?" 

"  Oh!  why,"  replies  the  maid,  "  my  faith  thus  prove' 
Canst  thou !  ah,  canst  thou,  then,  suspect  my  love  ? 
Hear  me,  just  God  I  if  from  my  traitorous  heart, 
My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part. 
If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore. 
He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more. 
May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 
Conjoin'd,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed. 
And  hurl  me  headlong  dovNH  these  awful  steeps, 
To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps!"' 

Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 

A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two ; 

One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides. 

The  other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides. 

"  This  bind  the  vow,"  she  said  ;  "  this  mystic  charm 

No  future  recantation  can  disarm  ; 

The  right  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve ; 

No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve." 

She  ceased.    The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry, 
The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by. 
And  once  again  the  lady  of  the  night 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  hght. 
Trembling  she  view'd  these  portents  with  dismay, 
But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away  : 
Yet  still  he  felt  conceal'd  a  secret  smart, 
Still  melancholy  bodings  fill'd  his  heart. 

\\Tien  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 

A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led. 

Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well-known 

walk. 
Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk. 
And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees. 
She  heard' his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 
Thus  two  years  glided  on  in  silent  grief; 
The  third  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief: 
Absence  hadcool'd  her  love, — the  impoverish'd  flanio 
Was  dwindhng  fast,  when,  lo !  the  tempter  came  ; 


1  This  part  of  the  Trent  is  commonly  called  "  The  Clifton 

459 


20 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  ofler'd  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  hfe, 

And  the  weak  nmid  became  another's  wife ! 

Six  guilty  months  iiad  mark'd  the  false  one's  crime, 

When  Balenian  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime. 

Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came. 

The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim  : 

Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well-known  way 

He  bent  his  steps — and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 

Oh !  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes, 

When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose ! 

Chill'd  with  amazement, — senseless  with  the  blow, 

He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  woe ; 

Till,  call'd  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 

He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair ; 

Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot. 

And  sought  those  scenes  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot), 

Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame, 

And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 

T  was  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore, 

And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 

Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood. 

And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood. 

Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye, 

He  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by ; 

Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave — 

Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 

Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent. 

Religion  sternly  stay'd  his  rash  intent. 

He  knelt. — Cool  play'd  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 

And  fann'd  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 

The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept, 

The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept. 

And  all  was  peace, — he  felt  the  general  calm 

O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm  : 

When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 

He  saw  the  Grove, — in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 

His  Margaret,  lull'd  in  Germain's '  arms  to  rest, 

And  all  the  demon  rase  within  his  breast 

Convulsive  now,  he  clench'd  his  trembling  hand. 

Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land. 

Then,  at  one  spring,  he  spurn'd  the  yielding  bank. 

And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound, 

As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around  : 

Then  all  was  still — the  wave  was  rough  no  more. 

The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before  ; 

The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene, 

And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 
Remorse's  glooms  and  never-ceasing  pang. 
Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late. 
She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  hsr  breast. 
The  offended  God  prolong'd  her  life  unblest. 
But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roll'd  away, 
And  near,  and  nearer,  drew  the  dreaded  day ; 
That  day,  foredoom'd  to  give  her  child  the  light, 
And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 
The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 
The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life. — 
As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed,  a  band 
Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand  ; 


1  Germain  is  tlie  traditionary  name  of  her  husband. 


In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time, 

Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 

Their  prayers  were  fruitless. — As  the  midnight  came 

A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame. 

In  vain  they  strove  against  the  o'erwhelming  load, 

Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 

They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 

The  blooming  Morning  oped  her  dewy  eye  ; 

Then  waking  wide  they  sought  the  ravish'd  bed, 

But,  lo !  the  hapless  Margaret  w-.s  fled  ; 

And  never  more  the  weeping  train  w  ere  doom'd 

To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  entomb'd. 

The  neighboring  rustics  told,  that  in  the  night 
They  heard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affright, 
And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mother's  breast. 
Started,  dismay'd,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 
And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn. 
They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was  borne 
By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave. 
Her  own,  and  murder'd  lover's,  mutual  grave. 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear. 

Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm'd  my  listening  ear: 

That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 

In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats ; 

And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power. 

Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 

'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 

To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 

With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 

On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 

This  sheds  a  fiiiry  lustre  on  the  floods. 

And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods; 

This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around. 

Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound  ; 

This,  and  the  deep'ning  glen,  the  alley  green, 

The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between, 

The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas. 

The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees, 

The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom. 

The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume ; 

These  are  thy  charms :  the  joys  which  these  impart 

Bind  thee,  blest  Clifton !  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  Native  Grove !  where'er  my  devious  track, 

To  thee  will  Memory  kad  the  wanderer  back. 

Whether  in  Arno's  polish'd  vales  I  stray. 

Or  where  "  Oswego's  swamps  "  obstruct  the  day  ; 

Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide. 

The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side ; 

Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse. 

Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrennean  views ; 

Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam. 

My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 

W^hen  Splendor  offers,  and  when  fame  incites, 
I  '11  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 
Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change. 
Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range; 
Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well-known  scenes  once 

more. 
Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore. 
And,  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 
Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 
But,  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny, 
And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die ; 

460 


CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


21 


Oh!  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 
That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing ; 
Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand. 
Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand ; 
Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb, 
My  sprile  shall  wander  through  this  favorite  gloom, 
Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove, 
Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove. 
Sit,  a  lorn  spectre,  on  yon  well-known  grave, 
And  mix  its  moanings  with  the  desert  wave. 


GONDOLINE. 


A  BALLAD. 


The  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They  murmur'd  pleasantly, 

When  Gondoline  roam'd  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 

And  turn'd  it  to  deadly  white. 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

It  fiU'd  her  faint  blue  eye. 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  Fancy's  ear, 

Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  King's  men. 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 

To  fight  the  Saracen. 

And  many  a  month  had  pass'd  away, 

And  many  a  rolling  year. 
But  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  Ocean's  misty  face  ; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 

In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower. 
To  guide  h^r  lover  to  the  land. 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 

But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast. 

And  sunken  in  her  eve  : 
"  Oh !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live. 

And  I  in  peace  will  die." 

She  w-ander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore. 

The  Curlew  scream'd  above, 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart 

Much  boding  of  her  love. 

Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way. 

And  this  was  all  her  cry, 
"  Oh .  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live. 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die." 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift. 

All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 

The  cavern  yawning  wide. 

202 


And  pendent  from  its  dismal  top 
The  deadly  nightshade  hung; 

The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 

Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  without  was  calm  ; 
Yet  Gondoline  entcr'd,  her  soul  upheld 

By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And  as  she  enter'd  the  cavern  wide, 
The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale. 

And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock 
It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipp'd,  and  she  stood  aghast, 

She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad  ; 
Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 

She  kept  upon  her  road. 

And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose  ; 
So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top, 

The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Were  heard  with  thundering  sound, 

Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay. 

Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went. 

The  charm  yet  onward  led. 
Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 

Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw. 

It  from  a  distance  came, 
She  foUow'd,  till  upon  her  sight. 

Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 

She  stood  appall'd  ;  yet  still  the  charm 

Upheld  her  sinking  soul ; 
Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote. 

And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 

And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  saw  before. 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  shall  see  more. 

A  burning  caldron  stood  in  the  midst. 
The  flame  was  fierce  and  high. 

And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long 
W^as  plainly  seen  thereby. 

And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 
Twelve  withcr'd  witches  stood  : 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes 
And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 

Their  hands  were  gory  too ;  and  red 
And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes : 

And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 
Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  join'd  their  hands, 

And  utter'd  a  joyous  cry. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

461 


22 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  now  they  slo|)t ;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  night 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline 

Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil, 
And  she  leaned  fearful  forwarder. 

To  hear  the  dreadfnl  tale. 

The  first  arose  :  She  said  she'd  seen 

Kare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd, 

She'd  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve, 
And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 

She  caird  around  the  winged  winds. 

And  raised  a  devilish  rout; 
And  she  laugh'd  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 

Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave, 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 

And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms, 

It  was  her  only  child. 
And  oft  its  little  infint  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguiled. 

And  there  was  too.  in  that  same  bark, 

A  father  and  his  son  ; 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was  old  and  woe-begone. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong, 

And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide. 

She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasp'd  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast,  and  wept  ; 
And,  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms, 

The  careless  baby  slept 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind. 

As  manfully  it  roar'd, 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs 

'T  was  a  glorious  sight  to  see  ; 
The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 

From  jumping  in  the  sea. 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  m  her  hand, 

And  it  was  soft  and  fair  : 
It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child. 

To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 

And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arras 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes,  they  fast  arose, 

His  pains  were  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands, 

And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue  : 
And  his  father  he  tore  his  thin  grey  hair, 

And  kissed  the  livid  hue. 


And  then  she  told,  liow  she  bored  a  hole 

In  the  hark,  and  it  fill'd  away : 
And  't  was  rare  to  hear,  how  some  did  swear. 

And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead, 
The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge ; 

But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding-shi 
And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  infant's  hair  m  the  fire. 

The  red  flame  flamed  high. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  second  begun  :  She  said  she  had  d<»ne 
The  task  that  Queen  Hecate  had  set  her. 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
Had  never  accomplish'd  a  better. 

She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman, 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair. 
Whose  evil  habits  hll'd  her  heart 

With  misery  and  care. 

The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 

A  wicked  man  was  he. 
And  oft  the  woman  him  against 

Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  work'd  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother. 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 

And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
And  pondering  sorely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led, 

She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor, 

And  she  raised  her  pallid  head, 
And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 

Approaching  to  her  bed. 

And  said.  My  child,  I  'm  very  ill, 

I  have  not  long  to  live. 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive. 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek. 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp  bright  knife. 

And  the  mother  saw  her  full  intent, 
And  hard  she  begg'd.for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail. 
And  she  scream'd  aloud  with  fear. 

But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 
Could  reach  no  hiunan  ear. 

And  though  that  she  was  sick  and  old, 

She  struggled  hard  and  fought ; 
The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 

Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat 

And  the  ha?  she  held  the  fingers  up. 

The  skin  was  mangled  sore. 
And  they  all  agreed,  a  nobler  deed 

Was  never  done  before. 

462 


CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


23 


And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high. 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose :  She  said  she  'd  been 

To  Holy  Palestine ; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day, 

Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 

Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps, 

Drew  nearer  to  the  flame. 
For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 

Her  hapless  lover's  name. 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of  that  eventful  day, 
When  on  the  well-contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said  that  she  in  human  gore 

Above  the  knees  did  wade. 
And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 

The  tricks  she  there  had  play'd. 

There  was  a  gallant-featured  youth. 

Who  like  a  hero  fought ; 
He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist. 

And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised, 

Uiito  the  knight  she  sues, 
And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes. 

And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark'd, 

His  love  had  given  her  hand 
Unto  a  wealthy  Thane,  and  thought 

Him  dead  in  holy  land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 

When  this  her  tale  she  told. 
It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 

Within  his  heart  run  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurr'd  his  warrior  steed. 

And  sought  the  battle's  bed  : 
And  soon,  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds. 

He  o«  the  cold  turf  bled. 

And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 

His  head,  half  clove  in  two, — 
She  ceased,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks. 

The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinn'd. 
And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 

The  scalp  was  nearly  skinn'd. 

T  was  Bertr  and's  He.\d  ! !  With  a  terrible  scream, 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring, 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding-place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  they  fled — the  caldron  sunk, 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 

Resounding  through  the  gloom. 


Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground. 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  hoard 

At  intervals  around. 

She  woke — she  half  arose, — and  wild. 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare : 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock, 
The  moon  it  sweetly  shone. 

And  show'd  a  river  in  the  cave 
Which  dismally  did  moan. 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep, 
As  it  rush'd  the  rocks  between. 

It  offer 'd  well,  for  madness  fired 
The  breast  of  Gondoline- 

She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moan'd 
With  its  accustom'd  sound, 

And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 
Again  rebellow'd  round. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more. — But  oft 
Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 

At  midnight's  silent  solemn  hour, 
Along  the  ocean's  side. 


LIAES 

WRITTEN  ON  A  SURVEY  OF  THE  HEAVENS,  IN  THE 
MORNING  BEFORE  DAY-BREAK. 

Ye  many  twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 

Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 

Of  night's  dominions ! — Planets,  and  central  orbs 

Of  other  systems ; — big  as  the  burning  sun 

Which  lights  this  nether  globe, — yet  to  our  eye 

Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp ! — To  you  I  raise 

My  loAvly  orisons,  while,  all  bewilder'd. 

My  vision  strays  o'er  your  etherial  hosts  ; 

Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warp'd  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold. 

And  Sagely  comprehend,  thence  higher  soaring. 

Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 

The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wondrous  maze, 

The  great  Creator !  Him !  who  now  subUme, 

Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  sphere 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 

The  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  Heaven, 

Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 

Repeating  loud,  "The  Lord  our  God  is  great!" 

In  varied  harmonies. — The  glorious  sounds 

Roll  o'er  the  air  serene. — The  .lEolian  spheres, 

Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries. 

Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  "The  Lf)rd  is  great  !'* 

Responding  to  the  Seraphim. — O'er  all, 

From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 

Of  the  created  world,  tlie  sound  is  Iwrne, 

Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh  !  't  is  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 

In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear, 

463 


24 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.    It  bids  me  smile 
On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 
Oh !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height, 
What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds  !  Almighty  God  ! 
Thou,  the  dread  Author  of  these  wondrous  works ! 
Say,  canst  Thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ? — Thou  can'st ; 
For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud, 
The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 

Oh !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 

How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 

The  gauds,  and  honors  of  the  world  appear ! 

How  vain  ambition ! — Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 

Outwatch'd  the  slow-paced  night? — Why  on  the  page, 

The  schoolman's  labor'd  page,  have  I  employ'd 

The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 

And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 

Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 

The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 

Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart, 

Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 

Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye, 

Or  paint  new  colors  on  this  pallid  cheek? 

Say,  foolish  one — can  that  unbodied  fame, 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness, 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  ? 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas  I  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !    Eternal  God  ! 
Guide  thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And  oh !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth. 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling. — All  but  this  is  folly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


LINES, 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SPOKEX  BY  A  LOVER  AT*THE 
GRAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED  BY  A  SITUATION'  IN  A  ROMANCE. 

Mary,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave. 

And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad  is  kneeling. 

The  big  tear  in  his  eye. — Mary,  awake, 

From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 

On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.    Soft,  and  low, 

Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 

Thy  whisper'd  tale  of  comfort  and  of  love, 

lo  soothe  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul, 

And  cheer  his  breaking  heart. — Come,  as  thou  didst, 

When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night-wind  howl'd, 

And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 

Of  the  startled  night, — Oh !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 

I  iisten'd  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm. 

Thou  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering 

Didst  strike  my  moody  eye  ; — dead  pale  thou  wert. 

Yet  passing  lovely. — Thou  didst  smile  upon  me. 

And,  oh !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical, 

Betwixt  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 


That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave. 
And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charm'd, 
Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne  to  still  repose, 
Lock'd  in  the  arms  of  silence. 

Spirit  of  her ! 
My  only  love ! — O !  now  again  arise. 
And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 
Soft  on  my  listening  ear.    The  night  is  calm. 
The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 
With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.  Divinely  swelling 
On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall 
Mingles  its  melody ; — and,  high  above. 
The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night. 
Fitful,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds, 
Shows  her  chaste  face  in  the  meridian  sky. 
No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-knoll 
Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels ; 
It  is  a  night,  when  from  their  primrose  beds. 
The  gentle  ghosts  of  injured  innocents 
Are  known  to  rise  and  wander  on  the  breeze. 
Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 
And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul. 
The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake, 
And  hold  its  custora'd  converse. 

Mary,  lo ! 
Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave. 
And  calls  upon  thy  name. — The  breeze  that  blov^'s 
On  his  wan  cheek  will  soon  sweep  over  him 
In  solemn  music,  a  funereal  dirge, 
Wild  and  most  sorrowful. — His  cheek  is  pale : 
The  worm  that  play'd  upon  thy  youthful  bloom. 
It  canker'd  green  on  his. — Now  lost  he  stands. 
The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew 
Which  bathes  his  aching  temples  gives  sure  omen 

Of  speedy  dissolution. Mary,  soon 

Thy  love  will  lay  his  pallid  cheek  to  thine. 
And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 


MY  STUDY. 

A  LETTER  IN  HL'DIBRASTIC  VERSE. 

You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
^V' here  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race. 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amore, 
And  wanton  with  the  Muse  in  glory. 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight. 

Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 

A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four, 

With  white-wash'd  walls  and  plaster  floor. 

So  nobly  large,  't  is  scarcely  able 

To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table ; 

And  (lest  the  Muse  should  die  with  cold), 

A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold, 

So  wondrous  small,  't  would  much  it  pose 

To  melt  the  ice-drop  on  one's  nose ; 

And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 

Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stuff'd  about. 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out. 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame 


My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack- 
A  broken  chair  without  a  back : 


464 


CLIFTON  GROVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


25 


A  table  wanting  just  two  leg?, 
One  end  sustain'd  by  wooden  pegs ; 
A  desk — of  that  I  am  not  fervent. 
The  work  of,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

rWho,  though  I  say't,  am  no  such  fumbler); 

A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler, 

From  which  my  night-parch'd  throat  I  lave, 

Luxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 

A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections, 

And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions ; 

So  small.  Sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 

Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls. 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobblers'  awls, 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves  ; 

I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog, 

You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay, — I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows,  destitute  of  snout ; 

And  on  the  walls, — Good  Heavens!  why  there 

I  've  such  a  load  of  precious  ware. 

Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals, 

(For  I  was  once  a-building  music, 

"Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick) ; 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  out  of  one  primordial  root  ; 

That  you,  with  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 

There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Cicero  without  an  ear, 

A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood  ; 

But  who  it  was  the  able  master 

Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster. 

Whether  't  was  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Bum, 
I  never  yet  could  justly  learn  : 

But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 
Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 
(And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 
And  after  piich  upon  a  name, 
IXor  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 
To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer, 
Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you  know- 
Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan  and  Juno), 
For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 
But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well. 
So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 
With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 


Then  all  around,  in  just  degree, 
A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see 
Of  mighty  men,  and  eke  of  women, 
Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 

I  call  my  garret  classic  ground. 

For  though  confined,  'twill  w^ell  contain 

The  ideal  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 

No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined, 

Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind ! 

Thus,  though  ray  heart  may  seem  so  small 

I  've  friends,  and  't  will  contain  them  all ; 


And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 
That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 
No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  give, 
I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  ofllspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine. 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms, 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

Thee,  when  young  Spring  first  qucstion'd  Winter's 

sway. 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight. 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 

In  this  low  vale  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone. 

Thy  lender  elegance. 

So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity :  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows 
Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast. 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


SONNET. 


TO    THE    RIVER   TRENT. WRITTEN    ON    RECOVERY 

FROM    SICKNESS. 

Once  more,  oh  Trent  !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale. 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 

Wooes  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale 
O!  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat  : 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail' 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
It  was  on  this  that,  many  a  sleepless  night, 

As,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam. 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  aflfright. 

The  owl's  dull  wing  and  melancholy  scream. 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this,  his  sole  desire. 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 


SONNET. 

Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 

Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days, 
And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled. 

May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 

List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise. 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys  . 
But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more : 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  vhe  vital  firo 

I  '11  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 

465 


26 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  lay  me  dowTi  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 


SONNET. ' 
surrosED  to  have  been  addressed  bv  a  female 

LUNATIC  TO  A  LADV. 

Lady,  thou  weepest  for  the  maniac's  woe, 

And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me,  art  young : 
Oh !  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know 

The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is  wrung. 
I  had  a  mother  once, — a  brother  too — 

(Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head :) 
I  had  a  lover  once, — and  kind  and  true. 

But  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled ! 
Yet,  whence  the  tear  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye  ? 

Oh !  gentle  lady — not  for  me  thus  weep, 
The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie. 

And  soft  and  sound  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep. 
Go  thou  and  pluck  the  roses  while  th  y  bloom — 

My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 


SONNET. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  THE  UNHAPPY  POET, 
DERMODY,  in  a  ST0R.M,  WHILE  ON  BOARD  A  SHIP 
IN  HIS  majesty's  SERVICE. 

Lo !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  cloiids 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 

Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds ; 
While  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclined, 

Lists  to  the  changeful  storm,  and  as  he  plies 
His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bcllunks  him  sad, 
Of  wife,  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad, 

And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes. 

I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn. 

View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep. 
Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep; 

For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn, 

And  the  wild  winds  shall  ring  my  funeral  knell, 

Sweetly,  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 


SONNET. 


THE  WINTER  TRAVELLER. 

God  help  thee.  Traveller  I  on  thy  journey  far ; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  o'erlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star 
To-night  will  guide  thee.  Traveller, — and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break, 
And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek 
Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car. 
Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 

A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee,  will  fill  my  head. 
And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  contend. 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
His  lunely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 


SONNET. 
BY  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESa. 


1  This  Quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  Sonnet,  "oc- 
cas  oned  by  seeing  a  young  Female  Lunatic,"  written  by  Mrs. 
LofR,  and  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror 


This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  Author  of  this  Volume,  and 
was  occasioned  by  several  little  Quatorzains,  misnomered 
Sonnets,  which  he  published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror.  He  begg 
leave  to  return  his  thanks  to  the  mufh-ri'sp<;cted  writer,  for 
the  permission  so  politely  granted  to  insert  it  here,  and  Cor  the 
good  opinion  he  has  been  pleased  to  express  of  his  productions. 


Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 

"  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 

Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song," 

Why  shun  the  Sonnet's  undulating  maze  ? 

And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarchian  davs, 

Assume,  its  rules  disown'd  ?  whom  from  the  throng 
The  muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 
Of  its  full  harmony : — they  fear  to  wrong 
The  Sonnet,  by  adorning  with  a  name 

Of  that  distinguish'd  import,  lays,  though  sweet, 
Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 
Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 
O  think !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 
Those  it  beseems,  whose  Lyre  a  favoring  impulse 
sways. 


SONNET. 


RECANTATORY,  IN  REPLY  TO  THE  FOREGOING 
ELEGANT  ADMONITION. 

Let  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night. 
Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 
Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight, 
Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight, 
Disdain  the  plaintive  Sonnet's  little  form, 
And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform 
The  impetuous  tenor  of  her  hardy  flight. 
But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train. 

Who  wake  the  wood-nymphs  from  the  forest  shadd 
With  wildest  song ; — Me,  much  behoVes  thy  aid 
Of  mingled  melody  to  grace  my  strain. 
And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 
Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close 


SONNET. 

ON  HEARING  THE  SOUNDS  OF  AN  i^OLIAN  HARP. 

So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
Of  the  infuriate  gust  it  did  career. 
It  might  have  soothed  its  rugged  charioteer, 
And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr ; — then  it  died, 
Melting  in  melody  : — and  I  descried, 

Borne  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  Druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 
Pour'd  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied: 
Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell. 
Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds. 
By  unseen  beings  sung ;  or  are  these  sounds 
Such,  as  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath. 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  death  ? 

466 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


27 


SONAET. 
,VnAT  art  thou,  Mighty  One!  and  where  thy  seat? 

Thou  broodest  on  the  cahn  that  cheers  the  lands, 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet  ; 
item  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud  and  wind, 
'    Thou  guidest  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead 
noon, 

Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  Monsoon, 
Oisturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
;n  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 
Df  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 
i^ain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 
kVho  glows  llirough  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space- 


A  BALLAD. 

Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter  winds ! 

Ye  pelting  rains,  a  little  rest ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts. 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh  !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 
To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid ; 

Oh !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love. 
To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betray'd. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home. 
He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear ; 

Nor  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
A  heart-sick,  weary  wand'rer  here. 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep : 

Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 

What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep ! 


JN'ow  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
1  cannot  bear  tiiy  subs  to  see, 

Harsh  is  thy  lather,  little  one, 
And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave, 

And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 

And  ihou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe, 
Wert  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud! 


THE  LULLABY 

OF  A  FEMALE  CONVICT  TO  HER   CHILD,  THE  NIGHT 
PREVIOUS  TO  EXECUTION. 

Sleep,  Baby  mine,'  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom, 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast ; 

Sleep,  Baby  mine,  not  long  thou 'It  have  a  mother 
To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arras  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining, 
Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled; 

Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning. 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 

Poor  wayward  wretch!  and  who  will  heed  thy  weep- 
ing. 

When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou 'It  be  ? 
Whothen  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother's  sleeping 

In  her  low^  grave  of  shame  and  infamy  ? 

Sleep,  baby  mine — To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee, 
And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest : 

Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee. 
For  never  more  thou  'It  press  a  mother's  breast 


1  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  poem  beginning,  "Sleep,  baby  mine." 


^oemstji  oC  a  later  13atc. 


EXTEMPORANEOUS  VERSES. 


rhese  lines  were  composed  extempore  soon  after  the  publica- 
tion of  "  Clifton  Grove,"  in  the  presence  of  an  acquaintance 
who  doubted  the  author's  ability  to  write  poetry. 


Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy, 

Whose  eye  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own, 
Oh,  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
I    And  find  in  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
I         Away,  away  ;  it  shall  not  be, 
i  Thou  shalt  not  dare  defile  our  plains ; 

The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  others'  jollity. 

Triumphant  monster!  though  thy  schemes  succeed; 
Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 


Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed. 
Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light; 

When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes 
Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear , 

Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses. 

Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe ; 

Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confest,  and  all 

Will  curse  the  ungen'rous  fate,  that  bade  a  Poet  fall 
***** 

Yet.  ah  I  thy  arrows  are  loo  keen,  too  sure  : 

Couldst  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  ? 
Alas !  in  robbing  him.  thou  robb'st  the  p^or, 

Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldst  take  away 
See  the  lorn  Bard  at  midnight-study  sitting, 

O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp ; 
While  o'er  fond  Fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting 

Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  imprest  ? 

Does  jocund  Health  in  thought's  still  mansion  live* 
Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest, 

That  short  quick  sigh — their  sad  responses  givo 

467 


28 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  canst  thou  rob  a  Poet  of  liis  song  ? 

Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 
Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long : 

Then  leave,  oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 
While  yet  he  lives — for,  to  his  merits  just. 

Though  future  ages  join,  his  fame  to  raise, 
Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust  ? 


TO  POESY. 


ADDRESSED  TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ.,  SEPT.  10,  1805. 

Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wander'd,  wandered  far 

From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy ! 

And  many  a  flower,  which  in  the  passing  time 

My  heart  hath  register'd,  nipp'd  by  the  chill 

Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 

Heart-soothing  Poesy  ! — though  thou  hast  ceased 

To  hover  o'er  the  many-voiced  strings 

Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 

Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice-hallow'd  cell, 

And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 

Warm  my  reluctant  heart. — Yes,  I  would  throw, 

Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 

O'er  the  responding  chords. — It  hath  not  ceased : 

It  cannot,  will  not  cease ;  the  heavenly  warmth 

Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 

Still,  though  unbidden,  plays. — Fair  Poesy! 

The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain, 

Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange. 

Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month, 

Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retired, 

Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd. — Sorceress ! 

I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  ! — It  is  but  lift 

Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault. 

Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm, 

And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme, 

And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work. 

Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chasten'd  fire, 

Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean-flood, 

Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 

Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 

Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy 

Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 

Must  turn  away  ;  there  are  severer  strains 

(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 

The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 

Released  and  disembodied),  there  are  strains, 

Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought, 

Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years. 

And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth. 

Have  purged  and  purified. — To  these  my  soul 

Aspireth ;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 

I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 

With  patient  expectation. — Yea,  sometimes 

Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me ;  and  sometimes 

Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait, 

And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 

Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low. 

Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bUss  complete 

A^nd  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 

Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 

The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 

Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 

Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone ; 


When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embower'd  brake, 

I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far 

Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme ; 

But  for  such  recollections,  1  could  brace  j 

My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path  j 

Of  science  unregretting  ;  eye  afar 

Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height. 

And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt, 

Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess. 

Where  throned  in  light  she  siis,  the  Queen  of  Trull; 


ODE 

ADDRESSED  TO  H.  FUSELI,   ESa.  K.  A 

On  seeing  Engravings  from  his  Designs. 

Mighty  magician !  w ho  on  Tomeo's  brow. 

When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night 
Art  wont  to  sit,  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  below  ; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 

From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep. 

While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song : 
Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chaunt  the  orbs  on  high, 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance, 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore) 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze. 
That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas  ; 
And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwreck'd  sailor's  funeral  knell, 
By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helmsman's  eye 
To  Ilelice  in  northern  sky  : 
And  there,  upon  tlie  rock  inclined 
With  mighty  visions  fill'st  the  mind, 
Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
Him '  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 
And,  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain. 
Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe ! 

Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
W^hose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep. 

Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit. 
Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit. 
From  him  2  thy  darling  child  who  best 
Thy  shuddering  images  exprest  ? 
Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern  and  proud, 
His  gloomy  spirit  spum'd  the  crowd, 
And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 

In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 

Mighty  magician  !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 

Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep ; 

And  oh  !  for  ever  must  its  efllbrls  sleep  ? 
May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain  ? 

Oh  yes,  'tis  his  I — thy  other  son ; 

He  throws  the  dark-wrought  tunic  oi^ 


1  Dante. 


2  Idem. 
468 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


29 


Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand, — again  thej-  rise, 
Again  thy  'wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish'd  eyes ; 

Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep 

Where  round  his  head  the  volley'd  hghtnings  flung, 
And  the  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rung, 

Woo'd  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep. 
Or  on  the  highest  top  of  TenerifTe 

Seated  the  fearless  boy,  and  bade  him  look 
Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skiff 

On  the  gulf-bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 

Thou  mark'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 
The  death-sob,  and,  disdaining  rest. 

Thou  saw'st  how  danger  fired  his  breast, 

And  in  his  young  hand  couch'd  the  visionary  spear. 
Then,  Superstition,  at  thy  call. 
She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 
And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight, 
The  savage  feast,  and  spectred  fight ; 
And  surnmon'd  from  his  mountain-tomb 
The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom, 
His  fabled  Runic  rhymes  to  sing. 
While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapp'd  his  wing ; 
Thou  show'dst  the  trains  the  shepherd  sees, 
Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam 
Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream : 
Lastly  her  storied  hand  she  waves. 
And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves ; 
There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes. 
Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams, 
There  Pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear. 
And  draws  the  half-reluctant  tear ; 
And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 
Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves, 
And  as  from  many  a  cavern'd  dell 
The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell. 
He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs  ; 
And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies. 
Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night. 
He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite. 
And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 
Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smoothes  the  whole, 
And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul  ; 
Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chasten'd  heat, 
The  wondrous  work  is  now  complete. 
The  Poet  dreams  : — The  shadow  flies. 
And  fainting  fast  its  image  dies. 
Bat,  lo !  the  Painter's  magic  force 
Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course ; 
It  lives — it  lives — the  canvas  glows, 
And  tenfold  vigor  o'er  it  flows. 

The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achieved, 
And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise. 
Sublime  before  his  wandering  eyes, 

Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceived. 


ODE 
ADDRESSED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE,  K.  G. 

I. 
Retired,  remote  from  human  noise, 

An  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene; 
His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 
Were  manifold,  I  ween. 

2P 


He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook 
At  eventide  lo  nuninate, 

He  watch'd  the  swallow  skimming  round, 
And  mused,  in  reverie  profound, 
On  wayward  man's  unhappy  stale, 
And  ponder'd  much,  and  paused  on  deed.s  of  ancieu 
date. 

n.  1. 

"  Oh,  't  was  not  always  thus,"  he  cried  ; 

"  There  was  a  time,  w  hen  Genius  claim'd 
Respect  from  even  towering  Pride, 

Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed  : 
But  now  lo  Wealth  alone  we  bow ; 

The  titled  and  the  rich  alone 
Are  honor'd,  while  meek  Merit  pines, 
On  Penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan. 

As  overwhelm'd  with  want  and  woe,  he  sinks  un- 
known. 

m.  1. 

"  Yet  was  the  Muse  not  always  seen 
In  Poverty's  dejected  mien. 
Not  always  did  repining  rue. 
And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced 
By  the  sweet  honors  of  poetic  bays. 
When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song, 
When  Shefi^icld  join'd  the  harmonious  throng, 
And  Lyttleton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 

Those  daj^s  are  gone — alas,  for  ever  gone ! 

No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
Their  brows  with  anadems,  by  genius  won, 
But  arrogantly  deem  the  Muse  as  base ; 
How  diiferent  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate 
race ! " 

L2. 

Thus  sang  the  minstrel : — still  at  eve 

The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 

With  solitary  song. 
And  still  his  theme  was  aye  the  same. 

Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core ; 
And  he  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove. 

And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er, 
And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no 

more. 

II.  2. 

But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be ! 

Fame  brought  Carlisle  into  his  view. 
And  all  amazed,  he  thought  to  see 

The  Augustan  age  anew 
Fill'd  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose. 
No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes. 
Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes. 

Regrets  he'd  sunk  in  impolence, 
And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence 

III.  2. 

Ah  !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore. 
With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore. 
Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest, 
An  unsubstantial  prop  it  best, 
\nd  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  summer ' 

469 


30 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ah!  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
Which  fia-sh'd  across  the  hemisphere, 
Illumining  the  darkness  there, 

Was  but  a  single  solitary  beam, 
While  all  around  remain'd  in  'customed  night. 

Still  leaden  Ignorance  reigns  serene, 
In  the  false  court's  delusive  height, 

And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen, 
To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady 

light. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S  EVE. 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day 

The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way. 

And  eve  along  the  western  skies 

Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes. 

Down  the  deep,  tlie  miry  lane, 

Creaking  comes  the  empty  wain. 

And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits. 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits ; 

And  oft,  with  his  accustom'd  call. 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone. 

And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on. 

While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall. 

Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 

Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 

He  has  penn'd  the  sheep-cote  fast, 

For  't  was  but  two  nights  before, 

A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor : 

His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 

Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries. 

With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try 

If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 

The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans. 

And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 

In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheel'd. 

And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-field; 

The  horses  aie  all  bedded  up. 

And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup, 

The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 

The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet. 

And  Bess  has  slink'd  away  to  talk 

With  Roger  in  the  holly-walk. 

Now.  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess  ; 
And  little  Tom,  and  roguish  Kate, 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things. 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings. 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news. 
How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse ; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent. 
And  landlord  oft  distrain'd  for  rent. 
Thus  do  they,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale-eyed  rnoon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reel'd — then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid — while  master  goes  throughout. 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastifl^  out. 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear. 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear : 


Then  lx)th  to  bed  together  creep. 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 


TO  CONTExMPLATION 

CojiE,  pensive  sage,  who  lov'st  to  d  JveL 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell. 
Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude, 
Resides  sequester'd  Solitude, 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole. 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill, 

Wliere,  with  printless  footsteps,  still 

The  morning,  in  her  buskin  grey. 

Springs  upon  her  eastern  way ; 

While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir. 

Playing  with  the  gossamer. 

And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne, 

Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 

There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pa«s. 

Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 

We  will  startle  from  her  nest 

The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast. 

And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among. 

Her  gale-transported  matin  song. 

Or  on  the  upland  stile  embower'd. 

With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flower'o 

Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 

To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill. 

Wafted  from  the  plain  below  ; 

Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low ; 

Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove. 

Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love : 

Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress, 

We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 

Where,  in  the  embower'd  translucent  stream 

The  cattle  shun  the  sultrj'  beam. 

And  o'er  us,  on  the  marge  reclined. 

The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind. 

While  Echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 

Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke ; 

Or  the  little  peasant's  song, 

Wandering  lone  the  glens  among. 

His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed. 

And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried 

But,  oh  !  when  evening's  virgin  queen 
Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene. 
And  mingling  whispers,  rising  near. 
Steal  on  the  still  reposing  ear : 
While  distant  brooks  decaving  round. 
Augment  the  mix'd  dissolving  sound. 
And  the  zephyr,  flitting  by. 
Whispers  mystic  harmony. 
We  will  seek  the  woody  lane. 
By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain, 
\V'here  the  weary  rustic  nigh 
Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody. 
And  the  creaking  wicket  oft 
Shall  echo  from  the  neighboring  croft ; 
And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lon«. 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrowTi, 

470 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


31 


We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore 
Till  the  fall  soul,  brimming  o'er. 
Shall  in  our  upturn'd  eyes  appear. 
Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear : 
Or  else,  serenely  silent,  set 
By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast, 
Bears  the  old  mossy  arch  impress'd. 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass, 
The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpress'd  by  fawn  or  sylvan's  feet, 
We  '11  watch,  in  eve's  etherial  braid, 
The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade  ; 
Or  catch,  faint  twmkling  from  afar, 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star, 
Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light. 
That  heralds  in  imperial  night; 
Meanwhile,  upon  our  wandering  ear, 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute, 
Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 
Of  dimmest  darkness — fitting  well 
With  love  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
Wake  slumbering  Chaos  on  his  throne). 
And  haply  then,  with  sudden  swell, 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew-bell. 
While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower 
The  hoisting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
Dull  Silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car 
Black-suited  Night  drives  on  from  far, 
And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear, 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear, 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
Sweeping  in  their  airy  pall, 
The  unshrived  ghosts  in  fairy  trance. 
To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance  : 
While  around  the  mystic  ring 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring. 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly, 
Wrapt  in  rnisis,  along  the  sky, 
And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen, 
In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 


Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 

To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat, 

Erabower'd  in  the  distant  glen, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men, 

Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb. 

The  glow-worm's  light  may  gild  the  gloom, 

And  show  to  Fancy's  saddest  eye. 

Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 

And  oh !  as  through  the  mouldering  arch. 

With  ivy  fiU'd  and  weeping  larch, 

The  night-gale  whispers  sadly  clear. 

Speaking  drear  things  to  Fancy's  ear. 

We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 

Of  some  deep-wailing  ruin'd  maid — 

Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down. 

To  tell  of  woe  and  Fortune's  frown ; 

And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 

Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 


Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied, 

To  linger  by  the  forest's  side ; 

Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood, 

Or  by  the  lone  romantic  flood ; 

Let  us  in  the  busy  town, 

When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 

Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee. 

And  turn  the  church's  massy  key ; 

Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 

The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  pass; 

And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall. 

Her  faint  ambiguous  shadows  fall ; 

Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail, 

Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 

As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet, 

Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet : 

While  from  the  tombs,  with  confess'd  breath, 

Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 

If  thou,  mild  sage,  will  condescend 

Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend. 

To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  bum, 

By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn. 

As  o'er  the  scroll  of  Time  I  pore, 

And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore. 

Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 

That  Plato  could  to  memory  call. 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things. 

Or  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings, 

Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 

In  night's  high  philosophic  mine  ; 

And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 

The  honors  of  undying  song. 


ODE 

TO  THE  GENIUS  OF  ROMANCE. 

Oh  !  thou  who,  in  my  early  youth. 

When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 

Wert  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet, 

To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat, 

Where  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide, 

The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide , 

Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 

In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade. 

Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold, 

Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold  ; 

And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay. 

Would  steal  my  little  soul  away, 

And  all  thy  pictures  represent, 

Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament ; 

Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene 

Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine. 

The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 

Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee, 

And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away, 

Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey  ; 

Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 

Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale 

Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side 

(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed), 

Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridor 

On  stormy  nights  were  heard  to  roar. 

By  old  domestic,  waken'd  wide 

By  the  angry  winds  that  chide  ; 

471 


32 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell 
Of  Greensleeve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  fell. 


THE  SAVOYARD'S  RETURN. 

Oh  !  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot, 

My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home ! 
Oh  !  welcome  is  yon  little  cot, 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam ! 
Oh  I  I  have  travell'd  far  and  wide. 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land  ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband : 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 

Allured  me  from  my  native  land  ; 
It  bade  me  rove — ray  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock. 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights ; 
The  plain  adorn'd  with  many  a  flock. 

And,  oh  I  a  thousand  more  delights, 
That  graced  yon  dear  beloved  retreat. 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet 

Now  safe  return'd,  with  wandering  tired, 

No  more  my  little  home  I  '11  leave ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I  've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh  I  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband  ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail. 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


LINES, 

Written  impromptu,  on  reading  the  following  passage  in  Mr 
Cape!  Loffi's  beautiful  and  interesting  Preface  to  Nathaniel 
Bloomfield's  Poems,  just  pubhshed. — "It  has  a  mixture  of 
tJie  sportive,  which  deepens  the  impression  of  its  melancholy 
close.  1  could  have  wished,  as  I  have  said  in  a  short  note, 
the  conclusion  had  been  otherwise.  The  sours  of  life  less 
offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  delight  it." 

Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  "  Be  still  I " 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  despair. 
But  tell  not  misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd. 
And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told. 
Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacquer'd  barge. 
Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge, 
Thou  may'st  extol  hfe's  calm,  untroubled  sea — 
The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines. 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  Merit  pines; 
Abide  with  him  whom  Pentiry's  charms  control, 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul ; 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and  standing  there. 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch  thai  life  is  fair ! 


Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head, 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  had  fled 
Mark  his  dew'd  temples,  and  his  half-shut  eye, 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh, 
His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair. 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 

Oh,  yes !  that  sunken  eye  w  ith  fire  once  gleam'd, 
And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  stream'd ; 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core. 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more 
Domestic  anguish  winds  his  vitals  round. 
And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
Lo !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decay'd  and  wan. 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on ; 
And  the  pale  mother,  pining  lo  decay, 
Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wretched  life  away. 

Go,  child  of  fortune  !  to  his  early  grave. 
Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave 
Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  lier  head 
On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 
Go.  child  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there. 
And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  wondrous  fair ! 

i 
I 

Yet,  Lofft,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretch'd  forth,  \ 
T' encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth;  { 

On  thee,  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfading  friend, 
'T  is  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend  ; 
'T  is  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 
Her  fairer  side,  but  little  mix'd  with  woe. 


"VATIITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

Sad  solitary  Thovght!  who  keep'st  thy  vigils. 

Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mmd  ; 

Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul. 

And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 

In  dim  obscurity  before  him, — thee. 

Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 

At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 

When  on  my  bed  in  wakeful  restlessness, 

I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 

All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 

I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 

Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb. — Yes,  't  is  the  hand 

Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

My  moments  now  are  few — the  sand  of  life 

Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish. — Yet  a  little. 

And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall. 

Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  imlamented. 

Come  then,  sad  Thought !  and  let  us  meditate 

While  meditate  we  may- — We  have  now 

But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time 

To  hold  communion ;  f jr  even  now  the  knife, 

The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 

The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 

Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die ; 

And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary. 

Though  Hope  for  me  has  smiled  but  to  deceive. 

And  Disappointment  still  pursued  her  blandishments 

Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 

As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 

472 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


33 


rhe  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank — futurity. 

\y,  I  had  plann'd  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 

)f  earthly  happiness — romantic  schemes, 

\nd  fraught  with  loveliness ;  and  it  is  hard 

To  feel  the  hand  of  Death  arrest  one's  steps, 

Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 

\nd  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 

jost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 

""ifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 

)h !  none  ; — another  busy  brood  of  beings 

yVill  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 

,Vill  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink, 

Vs  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 

)f  busy  London  : — Some  short  bustle 's  caused, 

\  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in, 

^nd  all 's  forgotten. — On  my  grassy  grave 

The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 

Vnd  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 

'Sor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears, 

leeall  my  vanish'd  memory. — I  did  hope 

■'or  better  things  I — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 

The  earth  without  a  vestige ; — Fate  decrees 

I  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 

iierceforth,  O  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires  I 

"so  more  of  Hope !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope  ! 

i  abjure  all. — Now  other  cares  engross  me, 

^nd  my  tired  soul,  with  emulative  haste, 

vooks  to  its  God,  and  plumes  its  wings  for  Heaven. 


PASTORAL  SONG. 

Come,  Anna  I  come,  the  morning  dawns. 

Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies : 
Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns. 
And  w-atch  the  early  lark  arise ; 
While  Nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
Hails  the  loved  return  of  day. 

Our  flocks,  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 

Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale ; 
And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade. 
We  '11  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale  ; 
And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above. 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come,  Anna !  come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 

That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet. 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute. 
We  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat ; 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join. 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns, 

Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum. 
We  '11  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains, 
To  these  sweet  heights  again  we  '11  come; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shall  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 


VERSES. 

When  pride  and  envy,  and  then  scorn 
Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  imbued, 

I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  mora 
Of  silence,  in  the  solitude ; 

60  2P2 


To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing 
Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring. 
To  lie  and  mnso  alone — alone. 
While  the  tinkling  walors  moan. 
Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 
Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there  's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray  ? 
So  to  the  woods  and  wasle  I  '11  go: 

And  I  will  btiild  an  osier  Iwwer: 
And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  How 

The  meditative  hour. 

And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  hand 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I  '11  to  the  forest  caverns  hie  : 
And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights, 
I  '11  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites. 
Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods, 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods: 
Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow. 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 


EPIGRAM 

ON  ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 

Bloomfield,  thy  happy-omen'd  name 
Insures  continuance  to  thy  fame ; 
Both  sense  and  truth  this  verdict  give, 
While felds  shall  lloom,  thy  name  shall  live! 


ODE  TO  MIDNIGHT. 

Season  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill, 

But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight, 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high. 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 

Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails. 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales, 

Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame. 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline, 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine. 

And  sing  the  gentle  honors  of  her  name : 

^Vhile  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends. 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song. 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come, 
See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom ! 

See  round  yon  church-yard  elm  what  spectres 
throng ! 

Meanwhile  T  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay, 
My  flageolet — and,  as  I  pensive  jjlay, 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors. 
Hears  them  aghast— (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 

Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between) 

473 


34 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  ke<jp, 
And  'mid  the  drearj-  solitude  serene, 
Cast  a  much  meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven,  and  weep. 


ODE  TO  THOUGHT. 

Written  at  Midnight. 

Hence  away,  \-indictive  Thought  I 

Thy  pictures  are  of  pain ; 
The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 
So  pr'ythee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep. 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep  ? 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant !  it  is  not  thine 
To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 
The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
'T  is  thine  to  die, 
While  o'er  the  eye 
The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows  fly. 

Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

His  bark  through  lonely  seas  ; 
And  as  recUning  on  his  helm. 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm. 
To  him  thou  mayst  bring  ease ; 
But  thou  to  me 
Art  misery. 
So  pr'ythee,  pr'ythee,  plume  thy  wings,  and  from  my 
pillow  flee. 


By  them  unheeded,  carking  Care, 
Green-eyed  Grief,  and  dull  Despair; 
Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way. 

With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath, 
Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day. 
Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 

n  1. 

But,  ah !  a  few  there  be  Avhoni  griefs  devour. 

And  weeping  Woe  and  Disappointment  keen. 

Repining  Penur}',  and  Sorrow  sour, 
And  self-consuming  Spleen, 
And  these  are  Genius'  favorites :  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please. 

And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw- 
To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll, 

Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  Rapture's  law. 
The  captivated  soul. 

III.  1. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 

High  above  the  burning  zone. 
In  radiant  robe  of  light  array'd. 
Oh  I  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favorite  made. 

His  melancholy  moan. 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows. 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days. 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gavest  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 

The  feting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  salt 
And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 

Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel. 
His  high  indignant  pride. 

1.2. 


And,  Memon,- !  pray  what  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  of  Pleasure  bom  ? 
Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow, 
Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
With  all  thy  smiles. 
And  witching  wiles, 
Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness   thy  mournful  sway 
defiles. 

The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour : 
LuU'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep. 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  Sleep! 
Invoke  thy  tardy  power ; 
And  restless  lie. 
Vv'ith  unclosed  eye, 
And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by. 


GENIUS. 

AN  ODE. 


I.  1. 

Many  there  be,  -who,  through  the  vale  of  life. 
With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go, 

While  jarring  Discord's  inharmonious  strife 
Awakes  them  not  to  woe. 


Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life, 

That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
For  ah !  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 

Distract  his  hapless  head  ! 
For  him  awaits  no  balmy  sleep. 
He  w  akes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep ; 
Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 

At  solemn  midnight  when  the  peasant  sleep? 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 

His  mournful  vigils  keeps. 

II.  2. 

And,  oh !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil  ? 

For  what  does  thus  he  w aste  life's  fleeting  breat 
'T  is  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  loil, 
'T  is  for  untimely  death. 
Lo !  w  here  dejected  pale  he  lies. 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes  : 
He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease. 

He  sees  the  grave  wide-yawning  for  its  prey 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace. 
And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

III.  2. 

By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
^  By  gentle  Otway's  magic  name. 

By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death, 
And  rashly  dared  to  slop  his  xiial  breaih, 

474 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


35 


Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim  ; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou  'rt  allied. 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side. 

And  far-resounding  Fame. 
What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low ; 
Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe, 
And  thou  at  thy  flash'd  car  dost  nations  draw, 
Yet,  ah  I  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
And  Discontent,  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky : 
A  melancholy  train. 
Yes,  Genius  I  thee  a  thousand  cares  await, 
JNIocking  thy  derided  state  : 
Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend, 
Before  whose  face  flies  fast  the  summer's  friend. 

And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn ; 
While  leaden  Ignorance  rears  her  head  and  laughs. 

And  fat  Stupiditj^  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 
And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs, 
With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides, 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  out-brave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  mouldering 
in  his  grave. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE  MOON. 

Mild  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild. 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light, 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguiled. 
Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat. 
Nocturnal  Study's  still  retreat, 
It  casts  a  mournful  melancholy  gleam, 
And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves, 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves, 
An  intermingled  beam. 

n. 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang. 

This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame ; 
These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang : 

These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame ! 
Pale  moon  !  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul : 

Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  on  high : 
My  lamp  expires  ; — beneath  thy  mild  control. 

These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner !  in  my  breast 
S'jothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest. 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace  : 
Mild  visitor !  I  feel  thee  here. 
If  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear. 

For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 
Oh  !  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray. 

Attuned  my  infant  reed: 
When  wilt  thou,  Time  !  those  days  restore, 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more — 


When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  T  lay, 
And  mark'd  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 

Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
To  inspirate  my  trance. 


Twin  sisters !  fainily  now  ye  deiirn 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  slied, 
In  vain  your  powers  are  now  cssay'd 

To  chase  superior  pain. 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  w  rlcome  orb  ? 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies  ! 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 

The  beam  of  ardor  dies. 
Wan  Moon !  thy  nightly  task  is  done, 
And  now,  encurtain'd  in  the  main, 

Thou  sinkcst  into  rest ; 
But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed, 

Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose — 


FRAGMENT. 

Loud  rage  the  winds  without. — The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  north  star  casts  her  flitting  shroud  ; 
And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale. 
Starts  as  she  hoars,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale: 
Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat. 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat, 
Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 
Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 
Shivering  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  him  dance, 
x\nd  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form, 
Stemming  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 
Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topt  [cot  of  thatch,] 
Soon  shall  his  'numb'd  hand  tremble  on  the  latch, 
Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame  ; 
Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud, 
What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd ; 
These  hail  his  coming — these  his  meal  prepare. 
And  boast  in  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What,  though  the  social  circle  be  denied  ? 
Even  sadness  brightens  at  her  own  flre-side, 
Loves,  with  fix'd  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze. 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days ; 
Or  Hope,  blest  spirit!  smiles — and,  still  forgiven, 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heaven. 
Then  heap  the  fire,— shut  out  the  biting  air. 
And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair : 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit  't  is  sweet 
To  hear  whhout  the  bitter  tempest  beat, 
All,  all  alone — to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh, 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 


FRAGMENT. 

Oh  !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train. 
Consumption  !  silent  cheater  of  the  eye  ; 

Thou  comest  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain. 

Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive  dye 
But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie  ; 

O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse, 
And,  while  thou  gives!  new  lustre  to  the  eye. 

While  o'er  the  cheek  arc  spread  health's  ruddy  hue* 

E'en  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 

475 


36 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oft  I've  beheld  ihee,  in  the  glow  of  youth, 

Hid  'neatli  the  blu&hing  roses  which  there  b  oom'd, 

And  dropt  a  tear,  for  then  thy  canivering  tooth 
I  knew  would  never  stay,  till,  all  consumed. 
In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entomb'd. 

But  oh  !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as  swift, 

Insidious  ravager !  I  saw  thee  fly 
Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow, 

Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky  ! 
Though  still  intelligence  beam'd  in  the  glance, 

The  liquid  lustre  of  her  fine  blue  eye; 
Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance, 
And  soon  she  calmly  sunk  in  death's  repugnant  trance. 

Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near. 
And  dissolution  hover"d  o'er  her  head  ; 

Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear, 
That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said, 
Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead. 

Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye, 

Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid 


I  HAVE  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart 

That  wish  lies  buried  ; 
To  keep  it  there 's  a  foolish  part, 

For,  oh  I  it  must  not  be. 

It  must  not,  must  not  be. 

^Vhy,  my  fond  heart,  why  beat'st  thou  sol 

The  dream  is  fair  to  see — 
But,  did  the  lovely  flatterer  go ; 

It  must  not,  must  not  be, 

Oh !  no,  it  must  not  be. 

'T  is  well  this  tear  in  secret  falls. 

This  weakness  suits  not  me  ; 
I  know  where  sterner  duty  calls — 

It  must  not,  cannot  be, 

Oh  I  no,  it  cannot  be. 


O.vcE  more  his  beagles  wake  the  slumb'ring  morn, 

And  the  high  woodland  echoes  to  his  horn, 

As  on  the  mountain  cliff  the  hunter  band 

Chase  the  fleet  chamois  o'er  the  unknown  land  ; 

Or  sadly  silent,  from  some  jutting  steep, 

He  throws  his  line  into  the  gulfy  deep. 

Where,  in  the  wilderness  grotesque  and  drear. 

The  loud  Arve  stuns  the  eve's  reposing  ear ; 

Or,  if  his  lost  domestic  joys  arise. 

Once  more  the  prattler  its  endearments  tries — 

It  lisps,  "  My  father ! "  and  as  newly  prest 

Its  close  embraces  meet  his  lonely  breast. 

His  long-lost  partner,  too,  at  length  restored. 

Leans  on  his  arm,  and  decks  the  social  board. 

Yet  still,  mysterious  on  his  fever'd  brain 

The  deep  impressions  of  his  woes  remain; 

He  thinks  she  weeps. — "And  why,  my  love,  so  pale? 

What  hidden  grief  could  o'er  thy  peace  prevail. 

Or  is  it  fancy — yet  thou  dost  but  *  * ;" 

And  then  he  weeps,  and  weeps,  he  knows  not  why. 


In  the  loud  night-storm  wrapt,  while  drifting  snows 

The  cheerless  waste  invest,  and  cold,  and  wide, 

Seen  by  the  flitting  star,  the  landscape  gleams; 

With  no  unholy  awe  I  hear  thy  voice, 

As  by  my  dying  embers,  safely  housed, 

I,  in  deep  silence,  muse.    Though  I  am  lone. 

And  my  low  chimney  owns  no  cheering  voice 

Of  friendly  converse  ;  yet  not  comfortless 

Is  my  long  evening,  nor  devoid  of  thoughts 

To  cheat  the  silent  hours  upon  their  way. 

There  are,  who  in  this  dark  and  fearful  night. 

Houseless,  and  cold  of  heart,  are  forced  to  bide 

These  beating  snows,  and  keen  relentless  winds — 

Wayfaring  men,  or  wanderers  whom  no  home 

Awaits,  nor  rest  from  travel,  save  the  inn 

Where  all  the  journiers  of  mortal  life 

Lie  down  at  last  to  sleep.    Yet  some  there  be 

Who  merit  not  to  suffer. — Infancy, 

And  sinew-shrinking  age,  are  not  exempt 

From  penury's  severest,  deadliest  gripe. 

Oh!  it  doth  chill  the  eddying  heart's  blood  to  see 

The  guileless  cheek  of  infancy  lurn'd  blue 

With  the  keen  cold. — Lo,  where  the  baby  hangs 

On  his  wan  parent's  hand  ;  his  shiv'ring  skin 

Half  bare,  and  opening  to  the  biting  gale. 

Poor  shiverer,  to  his  mother  he  upturns 

A  meaning  look  in  silence  I  then  he  casts 

Askance,  upon  the  howling  waste  before, 

A  mournful  glance  upon  the  forward  way — 

But  all  lies  dreary,  and  cold  as  hope 

In  his  forsaken  breast. 


Drear  winter !  who  dost  knock 

So  loud  and  angry  on  my  cottage  roof, 


Behold  the  shepherd  boy,  who  homeward  tend% 
Finish'd  his  daily  labor. — O'er  the  path, 
Deep  overhung  with  herbage,  does  he  stroll 
With  pace  irregular:  by  fits  he  runs, 
Then  sudden  stops  with  vacant  countenance, 
And  picks  the  pungent  herb,  or  on  the  stile 
Listlessly  sits  and  twines  the  reedy  whip, 
And  carols  blithe  his  short  and  simple  song. 
Thrice  happy  idler! — thou  hast  never  known 
Refinement's  piercing  pang  ,  thy  joys  are  small, 
Yet  are  they  unalloy'd  with  bitter  thought 
And  after  misery. — As  I  behold 
Thy  placid,  artless  countenance,  I  feel 
Strange  envy  of  thy  state,  and  fain  would  change 
These  short,  uncommon  hours  of  keener  bliss 
For  thy  long  day  of  equal  happiness. 

Heaven  grant  no  after  trials  may  imprint 
Trouble's  deep  wrinkle  on  thine  open  face, 
And  cloud  thy  generous  features. — May'st  thou  tread  ' 
In  the  calm  paths  through  which  thy  fathers  tirwi 
To  their  late  graves  of  honorable  rest : 
So  will  thy  lot  be  happy.  So  the  hour 
Of  death  come  clad  in  loveliness  and  joy  ; 
And  as  thou  lay'st  dov\Ti  thy  blanched  head 
Beneath  the  narrow  mound,  affection's  hand 
Will  bend  the  osier  o'er  thy  peaceful  grave. 
And  bid  the  lily  blossom  on  thy  turf 
But,  oh !  may  Heaven  avert  from  thee  the  curse 
Of  mad  fanaticism:  away,  away! — 
Let  not  the  restless  monster  dare  pollute 
The  calm  abodes  of  rural  innocence  I 
Oh  I  if  the  wide  contagion  reach  thy  breast, 

476 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


37 


Unhappy  peasant !  peace  will  vanish  thence, 

And  raging  turbulence  will  rack  thy  heart 

With  feverish  dismay  :  then  discontent 

Will  prey  upon  thy  vitals,  then  will  doubt 

And  sad  uncertainty  in  fierce  array, 

Wi!h  superstition's  monstrous  train,  surround 

Thv  dreadful  death-bed  ;  and  no  soothing  hand 

WiU  smooth  the  painful  pillow,  for  the  bonds 

Of  tender  amity  are  all  consumed 

Bv  the  prevailing  fire.    They  all  are  lost 

In  one  ungovernable,  selfish  flame. 

Where  has  this  pestilence  arisen  ? — where 

The  Hydra  multitude  of  sister  ills, 

Of  infidelity,  and  open  sin. 

Of  disaffeclion,  and  repining  gall? 

Oh  ye  revered,  venerable  band. 

Who  wear  religion's  ephod,  unto  ye 

Belongs  with  wakeful  vigilance  to  check 

The  growing  evil.     In  the  vicious  town 

Fearless,  and  fix'd,  the  monster  stands  secure; 

But  guard  the  rural  shade !  let  honest  peace 

Yet  hold  her  ancient  seats,  and  still  preserve 

The  village  groups  in  their  primeval  bliss. 

Such  was,  Plaoidio,  thy  divine  employ. 

Ere  thou  wert  borne  to  some  sublimer  sphere 

Bv  death's  mild  angel. 


Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp  arise, 
Embower'd,  remote,  a  lowly  cottage  lies  : 
Before  the  door  a  garden  spreads,  where  blows 
Xuw  wild,  once  cultivate,  the  brier  rose  ; 
Though  choked  with  weeds,  the  lily  there  wilipeer, 
And  early  primrose  hail  the  nascent  year ; 
There  to  the  walls  did  jess'mine  w  reaths  attach, 
And  many  a  sparrow  twitter'd  in  the  thatch. 
While  in  the  woods  that  wave  their  heads  on  high 
The  stock-dove  warbled  murmuring  harinony. 

There,  buried  in  retirement,  dwelt  a  sage, 
Whose  reverend  locks  bespoke  him  far  in  age: 
Silent  he  was,  and  solemn  was  his  mien, 
And  rarely  on  his  cheek  a  smile  was  seen. 
The  village  gossips  had  full  many  a  tale 
About  the  aged  "-hermit  of  the  dale." 
Some  call'd  him  wizard,  some  a  holy  seer, 
Though  all  beheld  him  with  an  equal  fear, 
And  many  a  stout  heart  had  he  put  to  flight, 
Met  in  the  gloomy  wood-walks  late  at  night. 

Yet  well  I  w-een,  the  sire  was  good  of  heart, 
Xor  would  to  aught  one  heedless  pang  impart ; 
His  soul  was  gentle,  but  he  'd  known  of  woe, 
Had  known  the  world,  nor  longer  wish'd  to  know. 
Here,  far  retired  from  all  its  busy  ways. 
He  hoped  to  spend  the  remnant  of  his  days ; 
And  here,  in  peace,  he  till'd  his  little  ground, 
And  saw,  unheeded,  years  revolving  round. 
Fair  was  his  daughter,  as  the  blush  of  day. 
In  her  alone  his  hopes  and  wishes  lay : 
His  only  care,  about  her  future  life, 
When  death  should  call  him  from  the  haunts  of  strife. 
Sweet  was  her  temper,  mild  as  summer  skies 
When  o'er  their  azure  no  thin  vapor  flies : 
And  but  to  see  her  aged  father  sad. 
No  feac  no  care,  the  gentle  Fanny  had. 


Slill  at  her  wheel,  the  live-long  day  she  sung, 
I'ill  with  the  sound  the  lonesome  woodlands  rung. 
And  till,  usurp'd  his  long  unquestion'd  sway, 
The  solitary  bittern  vving'd  its  way. 
Indignant  rose,  on  dismal  pinions  borne, 
To  find,  untrod  by  man,  some  waste  forlorn. 
Where,  unmolested,  he  might  hourly  wail. 
And  with  his  screams  still  load  the  heavy  gale. 

Once  as  I  stray'd,  at  eve,  the  woods  among. 
To  pluck  wild  strawberries, — I  heard  her  song  ; 
And  heard,  enchanted, — oh !  it  was  so  soft, 
So  sweet,  I  thought  the  cherubim  aloft 
Were  quiring  to  the  spheres.     Now  the  full  note 
Did  on  the  downy  wings  of  silence  float 
Full  on  the  ravish'd  sense,  then  died  away, 
Distantly  on  the  ear,  in  sweet  decay. 

Then,  first  I  knew  the  cot ;  the  simple  pair ; 
Though  soon  become  a  welcome  inmate  there : 
At  eve,  I  still  would  fly  to  hear  the  lay, 
Which  Fanny  to  her  lute  was  wont  to  play; 
Or  with  the  Sire  would  sit  and  talk  of  war, 
For  wars  he  'd  seen,  and  bore  full  many  a  scar, 
And  oft  the  plan  of  gallant  siege  he  drew. 
And  loved  to  teach  me  all  the  arts  he  knew. 


With  slow  step,  along  the  desert  sand. 
Where  o'er  the  parching  plains  broods  red  dismay 
The  Arab  chief  leads  on  his  ruthless  band. 
And,  lo!  a  speck  of  dust  is  seen  to  play. 
On  the  remotest  confines  of  the  day. 
Arouse!  arouse!  fierce  docs  the  chieftain  cry 
Death  calls  !  the  caravan  is  on  its  way ! 
The  warrior  shouts.    The  Siroc  hurries  by, 
Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  his  mur 
derous  eye. 

These  lines  might  appear,  by  the  metre,  to  have  been  intended 
for  a  stanza  of  the  "  Christiad,'"  perhaps  to  have  been  intro- 
duced as  a  simile;  but  though  the  conception  is  striking,  the 
composition  is  far  more  incorrect  than  that  of  that  fine  fragment. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

To  you  these  pensive  lines  I  fondly  send. 

Far  distant  now,  my  brother,  and  iny  triend. 

If,  'mid  the  novel  scene,  thou  yet  art  free 

To  give  one  silent,  museful  hour  to  me. 

Turn  from  the  world,  and  fancy,  whisp'ring  near, 

Thou  hear'st  the  voice  thou  once  didst  love  to  hear. 

Can  time  and  space,  howe'er  with  anguish  fraught, 

Damp  the  warm  heart,  or  chain  the  soaring  thought? 

Or,  when  most  dread,  the  nascent  joy  they  blast, 

Chase  from  the  mind  the  image  of  the  past  ? 

Ah,  no !  when  death  has  robb'd  her  hoard  of  bliss, 

What  stays  to  soothe  the  widow's  hours,  but  this? — 

This  cheers  her  dreams,  and  cheats  the  ling'ring  time 

Till  she  shall  reach     ******* 


On  !  had  the  soul's  deep  silence  power  to  speak  , 
Could  the  warm  thought  the  bars  of  distance  break 
Could  the  lone  music  to  thine  ear  convey 
Each  rising  sigh,  and  all  the  heart  can  say  I 

477 


38 


KIRIvE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Dear  to  mj'  breast,  beyond  conception  dear, 
Would  the  long  solitude  of  night  appear : 
Sweet  would  it  be  to  hear  the  winds  complain — 
To  mark  the  heavings  of  the  moonlight  main ; 
Sweet  lo  behold  the  silent  hamlet  lie, 
■yyj^jj  ****** 

But  sweeter  far     *        *        *        *        * 
Rose  not  unshared,  nor  fell  unmark'd  by  thee. 


The  harp  is  still !    Weak  though  the  spirit  were 
That  whisper'd  in  its  rising  harmonies ; 
Yet  Mem'ry,  with  her  sister,  fond  Regret, 
Loves  to  recall  the  wild  and  wandering  airs 
That  cheer'd  the  long-fled  hours,  when  o'er  the  strings 
That  spirit  hover'd.     Weak  and  though  it  were 
To  pour  the  torrent  of  impetuous  song. 
It  was  not  weak  to  touch  the  sacred  chords 
Of  pity,  or  to  summon  with  dark  spell 
Of  witching  rhymes,  the  spirits  of  the  deep 
Form'd  to  do  Fancy's  bidding ;  and  to  fetch 
Her  perfumes  from  the  morning  star,  or  dye 
Her  volant  robes  with  the  bright  rainbow's  hues. 
*  *  ♦  * 


Or  should  the  day  be  overcast, 
We  '11  linger  till  the  shower  be  past  ; 
Where  the  hawthorn's  branches  spread 
A  fragrant  covert  o'er  the  head. 
And  list  the  rain-drops  beat  the  leaves, 
Or  smoke  upon  the  cottage  caves ; 
Or,  silent  dimpling  on  the  stream, 
Convert  to  lead  its  silver  gleam; 
And  we  will  muse  on  human  life. 
And  think,  from  all  the  storms  of  strife, 
How  sweet  to  find  a  snug  retreat 
Where  we  may  hear  the  tempests  beat. 
Secure  and  fearless, — and  provide 
Repose  for  life's  calm  eventide. 


Mild  Vesper!  favorite  of  the  Paphian  Queen, 
Whose  lucid  lamp  on  evening's  twilight  zone. 
Sheds  a  soft  lustre  o'er  the  gloom  serene, 
Only  by  Cynthia's  silver  beam  outshone  : 
Thee  I  invoke  to  point  my  lonely  way 
O'er  these  wild  wastes,  to  where  my  lover  bides, 
For  thou  alone  canst  lend  thy  friendly  ray. 
Now  the  bright  moon  toward  the  ocean  glides — 
No  midnight  murderer  asks  thy  guilty  aid. 
No  nightly  robber     ***** 
I  am  alone,  by  silly  love  betray'd. 
To  woo  the  star  of  Venus  *  *  * 


In  every  clime,  from  Lapland  to  Japan, 

This  truth 's  confess'd, — that  man's  worst  foe  is  man. 

The  rav'ning  tribes,  that  crowd  the  sultry  zone. 

Prey  on  all  kinds  and  colors  but  their  own. 

Lion  with  lion  herds,  and  pard  with  pard. 

Instinct's  first  law,  their  covenant  and  guard. 

But  man  alone,  the  lord  of  ev'ry  clime. 

Whose  post  is  godlike,  and  wliose  pow'rs  subUme, 


Man,  at  whose  birlh  the  Almighty  hand  stood  still 
Pleased  with  tlie  last  great  cfTort  of  his  will, 
Man,  man  alone,  no  tenant  of  the  wood. 
Preys  on  his  kind,  and  laps  his  brother's  blood : 
His  fellow  leads  where  hidden  j)it-falls  lie. 
And  drinlvs  with  ecstacy  his  dying  sigh. 


ODE  TO  LIBERTY. 

Henxe  to  thy  darkest  shades,  dire  SlaverJ^  hence . 

Thine  icy  touch  can  freeze. 

Swift  as  the  Polar  breeze. 
The  proud  defying  port  of  human  sense. 

Hence  to  thine  Indian  cave. 
To  where  the  tall  canes  whisper  o'er  thy  rest, 

Like  the  murmuring  wave 
Swept  by  the  dank  wing  of  the  rapid  west : 

And  at  the  night's  still  noon, 
The  lash'd  Angolan,  in  his  grated  cell, 

Mix'd  with  the  tiger's  yell. 
Howls  to  the  dull  ear  of  the  silent  moon. 

But  come,  thou  goddess,  blithe  and  free, 
Thou  mountain-maid,  sweet  Liberty ! 
With  buskin'd  knee,  and  bosom  bare. 
Thy  tresses  floating  in  the  air  ; 
Come, — and  treading  on  thy  feet. 
Independence  let  me  meet. 
Thy  giant  mate,  whose  awful  form 
Has  often  braved  the  bellowing  storm. 
And  heard  its  angry  spicit  shriek, 
Rear'd  on  some  promontory's  peak, 
Seen  by  the  lonely  fisher  far. 
By  the  glimpse  of  flitting  star. 

His  awful  bulk,  in  dusky  shroud. 
Commixing  with  the  pitchy  cloud  ; 
While  at  his  feet  the  lightnings  play. 
And  the  deep  thunders  die  away. 
Goddess  !  come,  and  let  us  sail 
On  the  fresh  reviving  gale  ; 
O'er  dewy  lawns,  and  forests  lone. 
Till  lighting  on  some  mountain  stone, 
That  scales  the  circumambient  sky. 
We  see  a  thousand  nations  lie. 
From  Zembla's  snows  to  Afric's  heat, 
Prostrate  beneath  our  frolic  feet. 

From  Italy's  luxurious  plains. 

Where  everlasting  summer  reigns, 

Why,  goddess,  dost  thou  turn  away? 

Didst  thou  never  sojourn  there  ? 

Oh,  yes,  thou  didst — but  fallen  is  Rome ; 

The  pilgrim  weeps  her  silent  doom. 

As  at  midnight,  murmuring  low. 

Along  the  mouldering  portico, 

He  hears  the  desolate  wind  career, 

While  the  rank  ivy  whispers  near. 

Ill-fated  Gaul !  ambitious  grasp 
Bids  thee  again  in  slavery  gasp. 
Again  the  dungeon-walls  resound 
The  hopeless  shriek,  the  groan  profovmd 
But,  lo,  in  yonder  happy  skies, 
Helvetia's  airy  mountains  rise, 

478 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


39 


And,  oh  !  on  her  tall  cliffs  reclined, 

Gay  Fancy,  whispering  to  the  mind : 

As  the  wild  herdsman's  call  is  heard, 

Tells  me,  that  she,  o'er  all  preferr'd, 

In  every  clime,  in  every  zone, 

Is  Liberty's  divinest  throne. 

Yet,  whence  that  sigh  ?  O  goddess  !  say, 

Has  the  tyrant's  thirsty  sway 

Dared  profane  the  sacred  seat, 

Thy  long  high-favor'd,  best  retreat  ? 

It  has !  it  has  !  away,  away 

To  where  the  green  isles  woo  the  day ! 

Where  thou  art  still  supreme,  and  where 

Thy  Pa:ans  fill  the  floating  air. 


Who  is  it  leads  the  planets  on  their  dance — 
i  The  mighty  sisterhood  ?  who  is  it  strikes 
The  harp  of  universal  harmony  ? 

:  Hark !  'tis  the  voice  of  planets  on  their  dance, 
i  Led  by  the  arch-contriver.    Beautiful 
I  The  harmony  of  order !  How  they  sing, 
The  regulated  orbs,  upon  their  path 
Through  the  wide  trackless  ether !  sing  as  though 
A  syren  sat  upon  each  glitt'ring  gem. 
And  made  fair  music — such  as  mortal  hand 
:   Ne'er  raised  on  the  responding  chords ;  more  like 
i   The  mystic  melody  that  oft  the  bard 
i   Hears  in  the  strings  of  the  suspended  harp, 
Touch'd  by  some  unknown  beings  that  reside 
In  evening  breezes,  or,  at  dead  of  night. 
Wake  in  the  long,  shrill  pauses  of  the  wind. 
[    This  is  the  music  which,  in  ages  hush'd, 
I    Ere  the  Assyrian  quaff'd  his  cups  of  blood, 
I    Kept  the  lone  Chald  awake,  when  through  the  night 
He  watch'd  his  herds.   The  solitary  man, 
By  frequent  meditation,  learnt  to  spell 
Yon  sacred  volume  of  high  mystery. 
He  could  arrange  the  wandering  passengers. 
From  the  pale  star,  first  on  the  silent  brow 
Of  the  meek-tressed  Eve,  to  him  who  shines. 
Son  of  the  morning,  orient  Lucifer  ; 
Sweet  were  to  him,  in  that  unletler'd  age, 
The  openings  of  wonder. — He  could  gaze 
Till  his  whole  soul  was  fill'd  with  mystery, 
And  every  night-wind  was  a  spirit's  voice. 
And  every  far-off  mist,  a  spirit's  form  : 
So  with  fables,  and  wild  romantic  dreams. 
He  mix'd  his  truth,  and  couch'd  in  symbols  dark. 
Hence,  blind  idolatry  arose,  and  men 
Knelt  to  the  sun,  or  at  the  dead  of  night 
Pour'd  their  orisons  to  the  cloud-wrapt  moon. 
Hence,  also,  after  ages  into  stars 
Transform'd  their  heroes ;  and  the  warlike  chief, 
With  fond  eye  fix'd  on  some  resplendent  gem, 
Held  converse  with  the  spirits  of  his  sires : — 
With  other  eyes  than  these  did  Plato  view 
The  heavens,  and,  fill'd  with  reasonings  sublime. 
Half-pierced,  at  intervals,  the  mystery, 
Which  with  the  gospel  vanish'd,  and  made  way 
For  noon-day  brightness.         *         *         * 


How  beautiful  upon  the  element 

The  Egyptian  moonlight  sleeps! 
The  Arab  on  the  bank  haih  pitch'd  his  tent; 

The  light  wave  dances,  sparkling,  o'er  the  deeps ; 
The  tall  reeds  whisper  in  the  gale. 
And  o'er  the  distant  tide  moves  slow  the  silent  sail. 
Thou  mighty  Nile!  and  thou  receding  main. 

How  peacefully  ye  rest  uf«n  your  shores, 

Tainted  no  more,  as  when  from  Cairo's  lowers, 
Roll'd  the  swoln  cor&c?,  by  plague!  the  monster!  .slain 

Far  as  the  eye  can  see  around. 

Upon  the  solitude  of  waters  wide, 

There  is  no  sight,  save  of  the  restless  tide — 

Save  of  the  winds,  and  waves,  there  is  no  sound 

Egyptia  sleeps,  her  sons  in  silence  sleep ! 

Ill-fated  land,  upon  thy  rest  they  come — 
Th'  invader,  and  his  host.   Behold  the  deep 

Bears  on  her  farthest  verge  a  dusky  gloom — 

And  now  they  rise,  the  masted  forest.-,  rise, 
And  gallants,  through  the  fjam,  their  way  tbey  makr 
Stern  Genius  of  the  Meniphian  shores,  awake! — 

The  foeman  in  thy  inmost  harbor  lies. 
And  ruin  o'er  thy  land  with  brooding  penncu  fl:e>« 


Ghosts  of  the  dead,  in  grim  array. 

Surround  the  tyrant's  nightly  bed  I 
And  in  the  still,  distinctly  say, 

I  by  thy  treachery  bled. 
And  I,  and  I,  ten  thousands  cry ; 

From  Jaffa's  plains,  from  Egypt's  sand? 
They  come,  they  raise  the  chorus  high, 

And  whirl  around  in  shrieking  bands. 
Loud,  and  more  loud,  the  clamors  rise, 

"  Lo!  there  the  traitor!  murderer!  lies  " 
He  murder'd  me,  he  murder'd  thee. 

And  now  his  bed  his  rack  shall  be. 
As  when  a  thousand  torrents  roar, 
Around  his  head  their  yells  they  pour. 
The  sweat-drops  start,  convulsion's  hand 
Binds  every  nerve  in  iron  band. 
'T  is  done  !  they  fly,  the  clamors  die. 

The  mocn  is  up,  the  night  is  calm, 
Man's  busy  broods  in  slumbers  lie  ; 

But  horrors  still  the  tyrant's  soul  alarm, 
And  ever  and  anon,  serenely  clear. 
Have  mercy,  mercy,  heaven!  strikes  on  dull  uv* 

night's  ear. 


ODE 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  d'ENGHIEN. 

What  means  yon  trampling !  what  that  light 

That  glimmers  in  the  inmost  wood ; 
As  though  beneath  the  felon  night, 

It  mark'd  some  deed  of  blood  ; 
Behold  yon  figures,  dim  descried 
In  dark  array  ;  they  speechless  glide. 
The  forest  moans ;  the  raven's  scream 
Swells  slowly  o'er  the  moated  stream. 
As  from  the  castle's  topmost  tower. 

It  chants  its  boding  song  alone  : 
A  song,  that  at  this  awful  hour 

Bears  dismal  tidings  in  its  funeral  tone , 
479 


40 


KIRIvE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tidings,  that  in  some  grey  domestic's  ear 
Will  on  his  wakeful  bed  strike  deep  mysterious  fear. 

And,  hark,  that  loud  report !  'I  is  done  ; 

There's  murder  couch'd  in  yonder  gloom; 
'T  is  done,  't  is  done  I  the  prize  is  won, 

Another  rival  meets  his  doom. 
The  tyrant  smiles, — with  fell  delight 
He  dwells  ujwn  the    *     *     *     *     * 
The  tyrant  smiles ;  from  terror  freed, 
E.xulting  m  the  foul  misdeed, 
And  sternly  in  his  secret  breast 
Marks  out  the  victims  next  to  lall. 
His  purpose  fix'd  ;  their  moments  fly  no  more, 

He  points, — the  poniard  knows  its  own ; 
Unseen  it  strikes, — unseen  they  die, 
Foul  midnight  only  hears,  and  shudders  at  the  groan. 
But  justice  yet  shall  lift  her  arm  on  high, 
And  Bourbon's  blood  no  more  ask  vengeance  from 
the  sky. 


SONNET. 
TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

LoFFT,  unto  thee  one  tributary  song 

The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring; 

She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng. 
And  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 

Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth. 
Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild  ; 

Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth, 
And  to  thy  bosom  snatch'd  Misfortune's  child : 

Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  becoming  zeal. 
Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pylian  sire. 
Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  couldst  sweep  the  lyre. 

And  show  thy  labors  for  the  public  weal. 
Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joy  supreme, 
But  ah!  she  shrinks  abash'd  before  the  arduous 
theme. 


SONNET. 


TO  THE  MOON. WRITTEN'  I\  NOVEMBER. 

Sublime,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee,  Moon,  I  hail. 
As,  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 

Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funereal  dirge. 

Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight, 

And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 

Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night ! 
With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day. 

And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight. 
How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray. 

Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  etherial  height, 
And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Fast  from  the  West  the  fading  day-streaks  fly. 
And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway. 

Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie. 
And  «'er  ray  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 


Oh !  't  is  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  woo'd 

The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave. 
And  hail'd  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which  nowrenew'd 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave  I 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way. 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round. 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound 
Oh !  that,  like  thee,  I  might  bid  sor-ow  cease. 
And  'neath  the  green-sward  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace 


SONNET. 


Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  summer's  smile, 

Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring ; 
But  ah  !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile. 

Where  gloomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling. 
Is  it  for  mo  to  strike  the  Idahan  string — 

Raise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire, 
While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  fairies  ring. 

And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ? 
Away  with  thoughts  like  these!  to  some  lone  cave, 

Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps 
the  wave. 
Direct  my  steps ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 

ril  sit  remote  from  worldly  noise,  and  muse 

Till  through  my  soul  shall  Peace  her  balm  infuse 
And  whisper  sounds  of  comfort  in  mine  ear. 


SONNET. 


Poor  little  one  !  most  bitterly  did  pain. 

And  life's  worst  ills,  as.sail  thine  early  age ; 

And,  quickly  tired  with  this  rough  pilgrimage, 

Thy  wearied  spirit  did  its  heaven  regain. 

Moaning,  and  sickly,  on  the  lap  of  life 

Thou  laid'sl  thine  aching  head,  and  thou  didst  sigh 

A  little  while,  ere  to  its  kindred  sky 

Thy  soul  return'd,  to  taste  no  more  of  strife! 

Thy  lot  was  happy,  little  sojourner! 

Thou  hadst  no  mother  to  direct  thy  ways  ; 

And  fortune  frown'd  most  darkly  on  thy  days. 

Short  as  they  were.    Now,  far  from  the  low  stir 

Of  this  dim  spot,  in  heaven  thou  dost  repose. 

And  look'st  aad  smilest  on  this  world's  transient  woes. 


1 


SONNET. 
TO  DECEMBER. 

DARK-visaged  visitor!  who  comest  here 
Clad  in  thy  mournful  tunic,  to  repeat 
(While  glooms  and  chilling  rains  enwrap  thy  feet) 

The  solemn  requiem  of  the  dying  year; 

Not  undelightful  to  my  list'ning  ear 

Sound  thy  dull  showei-s,  as  o'er  my  woodland  seat, 
Dismal,  and  drear,  the  leafless  trees  they  beat: 

Not  undelightful,  in  their  wild  career. 

Is  the  wild  music  of  thy  howling  blasts. 

Sweeping  the  groves'  long  aisle,  while  sullen  Time 

Thy  stormy  mantle  o'er  his  shoulder  casts. 

And,  rock'd  upon  his  throne,  with  chant  sublime. 

Joins  the  full-pealing  dirge,  and  winter  weaves 

Her  dark  sepulchral  wreath  of  faded  leaves. 

480 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


SOxNNET. 
MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune  !  I  am  young,  my  chin  is  bare  ; 

And  I  have  wonder'd  much  when  men  have  told 
How  yonlh  was  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 

That  thou  shouldst  dwell  with  me,  and  leave  the  old. 
Sure  dost  not  like  me ! — Shrivell'd  hag  of  hate, 

My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  is  sadly  long  ; 

I  am  not  either,  Beldame,  over  strong  ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate. 
For  thou,  sweet  fury,  art  my  utter  hate ! 
Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable  pate, 
I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy  face ; 
And,  lest  thou  shouldst  resume  the  wild-goose  chaee 
I  '11  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
—Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 


SONNET. 

As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a  heavy  care 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful),  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 
The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there  ; 
Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair. 

Fills  my  sad  breast :  and,  tired  with  this  vain  coil, 
I  shrink  dismay'd  before  life's  upland  toil.        a 
And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air  W 

Whispers  still  melody, — I  think  ere  long. 

When  I  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will  speak : 
And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek, 
And  mournful  phantasies  upon  me  throng, 
And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 


SONNET— TO  APRIL. 

Emblem  of  life !  see  changeful  April  sail 
In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies, 
Now  bidding  summer's  softest  zephyrs  rise. 
Anon,  recalling  Winter's  stormy  gale, 
And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ! 

Then  smiling  through  the  tear  that  dims  her  eyes. 
While  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  cjves, 
Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 
So  to  us,  sojourners  in  Life's  low  vale. 
The  smiles  of  Fortune  flatter  to  deceive, 
While  still  the  Fates  the  web  of  Mystery  weave; 
So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail, 
And  from  the  present  gloom  the  soul  conveys 
To  distant  summers  and  far  happier  days. 


SONNET. 

Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretch'd  supine  he  lies. 
When  he  who  now  invokes  you  low  is  laid, 

His  tirod  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed. 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  his  head. 
And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposmg  shade ! 
61  2Q 


For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals ; 
And  often  by  the  haunted  stream,  that  laves 
The  dark  sequcster'd  woodland's  inmost  caves, 
Woidd  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls. 
Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye. 
And  his  big  heart  would  heave  with  mournful  ecstacy. 

SONNET. 
TO  A  TAPER. 
'Tis  midnight. — On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits, 

And  all  is  silence — in  the  hour  of  sleep; 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits, 

In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep. 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep. 

To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  bum ; 
And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep, 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head. 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom  ; 
And  tne  sad  meaning  tear,  unmixt  with  dread, 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane ;  like  thine,  my  life's  last  ray 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 


SONNET. 
TO  MY  MOTHER. 

And  canst  thou.  Mother,  for  a  moment  think, 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honors  on  thy  weary  head. 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 

Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 
Than  we,  lingrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day. 
To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away. 

Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 

Banish  the  thought! — where'er  our  steps  may  roam 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree. 
Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 

And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home  ; 

While  duty  bids  us  aU  thy  griefs  assuage. 

And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 

SONNET. 

Yes,  't  will  be  over  soon. — This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

From  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before, — 

Yon  land.scape  smile, — yon  golden  harvest  grow, 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar. 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress, 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave ; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bles.s, 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just  I — Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup; 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


SONNET. 
TO  CONSUMPTION. 
Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand  I — let  me  decay, 

481 


42 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 
And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  ihe  dead. 
And  it'  'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said, 

That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 

Of  death  to  those  good  men  who  fail  thy  prey, 
O  let  the  aiirial  music  round  my  bed. 
Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony. 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear ! 
That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good  bye 

Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear: 
And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  paiiiful  past. 
Compose  ray  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last 


SONNET. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M.  DESBARREAUX. 

Thy  judgments.  Lord,  are  just:  thou  lovesl  to  wear 

The  face  of  pity  and  of  love  divine ; 
But  mine  is  guilt — thou  must  not.  canst  not,  spare, 

While  heaven  is  true  and  equity  is  thine. 
Ye3,  oh  my  God  I — such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread. 

Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee ; 
Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head, 

And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  lor  me ! 
Thy  will  be  done — since  't  is  lliy  glory's  due. 

Did  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  flow ; 
Smite — it  is  time — though  endless  death  ensue, 

J  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 
But  on  what  spot  shall  i'all  thine  anger's  flood. 
That  has  not  first  been  drench'd  in  Christ's  atoning 
blood. 


TO  A  FRIEND  LV  DISTRESS, 

Who,  when  the  Author  reasmied  with  him  calmly,  ashed 
"  if  he  did  not  feel  for  him  ?" 

'  Do  I  not  feel?'    The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 

Yea.  1  do  feel — most  exquisitely  feel; 

My  heart  can  weep,  when  from  my  downcast  eye 

I  chase  the  tear,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh  : 

Deep-buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart. 

And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 

On  this  1  act,  whatever  pangs  surround, 

'Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  ihe  wound! 

When  all  was  new.  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 

I  lived  an  unloved  solitary  thing ; 

Even  then  I  learnt  to  bury  deep  from  day, 

The  piercing  cares  that  wore  niv  vouth  away : 

Even  then  I  learnt  for  others'  cares  to  feel : 

Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal : 

Even  then,  deep-sounding  through  the  nightly  gloom, 

1    heard    the   wreiched's  groan,   ana    mourn'd    the 

wretched 's  doom. 
Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ? — The  midnight  fire — 
The  silent  moonbeam,  or  the  starry  choir; 
To  these  I  'plain'd,  or  turn'd  from  outer  sight. 
To  biess  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light ; 
1  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn. 
For  vulgar  pity  mixt  with  vulgar  scorn; 
The  sacred  source  of  woe  I  never  ope. 
My  breast 's  my  coflfer,  and  my  God 's  my  hope. 
But  that  I  do  feel,  Time,  my  friend,  will  show, 
Tho  igh  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know  ; 
With  them  I  laugh — yet  when  no  eye  can  see, 
I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 


Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  *  *  *;  I  fondly  thought 
In  thee  I'd  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought! 
I  fondly  thought,  that  thou  couldst  pierce  the  guise, 
At  d  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies  ; 
I  fondly  thought,  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone. 
Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one  I 
Yes, — and  they  yet  will  mingle.    Days  and  years 
Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears : 
We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power         ^ 
To  soothe  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour ; 
Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand. 
And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 
Thine, 

H.  K.  Whitf 
Half-past  Eleven  o'Clock  at  Night. 


CHRISTMAS-DAY,  1804. 

Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake,  my  Harp  I 
Erom  silence  and  neglect — one  lofty  strain, 
Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
And  speaking  mysteries  more  than  words  can  tell 
I  ask  of  thee  :  for  I,  with  hymnings  high. 
Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 

Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods. 

Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch  of  ivy  sear. 

Wreathe  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December!  now  ; 

]N^  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song. 

And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 

Of  the  Redeemer. —  Near  two  thousand  suns 

Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 

Of  generations,  since  the  day-spring  first 

Beam'd  from  on  high ! — Now  to  the  mighty  mass 

Of  that  increasing  aggregate,  we  add 

One  unit  more.    Space,  in  comparison 

How  small,  yet  mark'd  with  how  much  misery ! 

Wars,  famines,  and  the  fur}'.  Pestilence, 

Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread,  scourge ; 

The  oppressed  too,  in  silent  bitterness. 

Weeping  their  sufTerance ;  and  the  arm  of  wrong. 

Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak. 

And  sleeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  character'd  with  woe 

In  Christian  land, and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and  crimes 

Yet  'twas  not  thus  He  taught — not  thus  He  lived, 

Whose  bkih  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 

And  mucn  thanksgiving. — He,  a  man  of  woes. 

Went  on  the  way  appointed. — path,  though  rude, 

Yet  borne  with  patience  slill: — He  came  to  cheer 

The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick, 

.And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 

To  pour  the  light  of  truth. — O  task  divine ! 

O  more  than  angel  teacher !  He  had  words 

To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds 

And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  in  troubled  seas. 

Wrapt  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 

He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 

Arm'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was  rack'd, 
Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek. 
For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  pray'd. 
His  persecutors — "  Father,  pardon  them. 
They  know  not  what  they  do." 

Angels  of  heaven, 
48:2 


I 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


43 


Ye  who  beheld  Ilim  fainting  on  the  cross, 

AtkI  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 

The  hallehijahs  of  the  risen  God  I 

^Vill  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  heard 

Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 

Yes,  He  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 

Iitr  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith. 

Low  though  it  be  and  humble. — Lord  of  life ! 

The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now 

Fills  my  uprising  soul.    I  mount,  I  fly 

Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs  ; 

The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes, 

And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow,  are  no  more. 


NELSONI  MORS. 

Y'et  once  again,  my  Harp !  yet  once  again, 

One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain-ash 

I  will  again  suspend  thee.  I  have  fell 

The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last, 

At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  w^ere  hush'd, 

I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 

Since  then  with  Thoughtfulness,  a  maid  severe, 

I've  journey'd,  and  have  learn'd  to  shape  the  freaks 

Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth ; 

Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart 

Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 

Of  spring-gales  past — the  woods  and  storied  haunts 

Of  my  not  songless  boyhood. — Y^et  once  more, 

Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones, 

Mv  long-neglected  Harp. — He  must  not  sink  i 

The  good,  the  brave — he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 

No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well. 

Or  Castaly, — though  from  the  morning  cloud 

I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse  : 

Y''et  will  I  wreathe  a  garland  for  his  brows. 

Of  simole  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 

Of  Britain,  my  loved  country :  and  whh  tears 

Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 

Thy  honor'd  corse,  my  Nelson,  tears  as  warm 

And  holiest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 

Fast  from  thy  honest  heart. — Thou,  Pitj',  loo, 

If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step. 

To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night, 

To  the  top-crag  of  some  rain-beaten  cliff; # 

And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 

Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 

\Vild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds. 

The  dying  soul's  viaticum ;  if  oft 

Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I  've  sate 

With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  throne,  and  sung 

To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul, 

With  mercy  and  forgiveness — visitant 

Of  heaven — sit  thou  upon  my  harp. 

And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 

For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 

How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
'Kerchieft  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when 


To  thee,  my  wonted  help,  I  still  betake  me. 
To  thee  1  clamor,  but  thou  dost  not  hear. 

The  beam  of  morning  witnesses  my  sighing. 
The  lonely  night-hour  views  me  weep  in  vain, 

Y''et  thou  art  holy,  and,  on  thee  relying. 

Our  fathers  were  released  from  grief  and  pain. 

To  thee  they  cried,  and  thou  didst  hear  their  wailing, 
On  thee  they  trusted,  and  their  trust  was  sure ; 

But  I,  poor,  lost,  and  wretched  s(>n  of  failing, 
I,  without  hope,  must  scorn  and  hate  endure. 

Me  they  revile ;  with  many  ills  molested. 
They  bid  me  seek  of  thee,  O  Lord,  redress : 

On  God,  they  say,  his  hope  and  trust  he  rested, 
Let  God  relieve  him  in  his  deep  distress. 

To  me.  Almighty !  in  thy  mercy  shining. 

Life's  dark  and  dangerous  portals  thou  didst  ope ; 

And  softly  on  my  mother's  lap  reclining. 

Breathed  through  my  breast  the  lively  soul  of  hope. 

Even  from  the  womb,  thou  art  my  God,  my  lather ! 

Aid  me,  now  trouble  weighs  me  to  the  ground : 
Me  heavy  ills  have  worn,  and,  faint  and  feeble, 

The  bulls  of  Ba.shan  have  beset  me  round. 

My  heart  is  melted  and  my  soul  is  weary. 

The  wicked  ones  have  pierced  my  hands  and  feet! 

Lord,  let  thy  influence  cheer  my  bosom  dreary: 
My  help!  my  strength!  let  me  thy  presence  greet 

Save  me!  oh,  save  me!  from  the  sword  dividing, 
Give  me  my  darling  from  the  jaws  of  death! 

Thee  will  I  praise,  and,  in  thy  name  confiding. 
Proclaim  thy  mercies  with  my  latest  breath. 


HYMN  L 


PSALM  xxn. 

Mv  God,  my  God,  oh,  why  dost  thou  forsake  me? 
Why  art  thou  distant  in  the  hour  of  fear  ? 


The  Lord  our  God  is  full  of  might, 

The  winds  obey  his  will : 
He  speaks,  and  in  his  heavenly  height 

The  rolling  sun  stands  still. 

Rebel,  ye  waves,  and  o'er  the  land 
With  threatening  aspect  roar ! 

The  Lord  uplifts  his  awful  hand, 
And  chains  you  to  the  shore. 

Howl,  winds  of  night,  your  force  combine 

Without  his  high  behest, 
Y'e  shall  not  in  the  mountain  pine 

Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest. 

His  voice  siiblime  is  heard  afar, 

In  the  distant  peal  it  dies  ; 
He  yokes  the  whirlwind  to  his  car, 

And  sweeps  the  howling  skies. 

Y^e  nations,  bend,— in  reverence  bend  ; 

Y^e  monarchs,  wait  his  nod  ; 
And  bid  the  choral  song  ascend, 

To  celebrate  your  God. 

483 


44 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


HYxMN  II. 

The  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  all, 

His  station  who  can  find  ? 
I  hear  him  in  the  waterfall ! 

I  hear  him  in  the  wind ! 

If  in  the  gloom  of  night  I  shroud, 

His  face  I  cannot  fly ; 
I  see  him  in  the  evening  cloud, 

And  in  the  morning  sky. 

He  lives,  he  reigns  in  every  land. 

From  winter's  polar  snows 
To  where,  across  the  burning  sand, 

The  blasting  meteor  glows  ! 

He  smiles,  we  live ;  he  frowTis,  we  die : 
We  hang  upon  his  word  : — 

He  rears  his  red  right  arm  on  high, 
And  ruin  bares  the  sword. 

He  bids  his  blasts  the  fields  deform — 
Then  when  his  thunders  cease, 

Sits  like  an  angel  'mid  the  storm. 
And  smiles  the  winds  to  peace  I 


HYMN  III. 

Through  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  path. 

Amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  King, 

Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 

There,  when  the  turmoil  is  no  more. 

And  all  our  powers  decay, 
Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 

Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 

Our  labors  done,  securely  laid 

In  this  our  last  retreat. 
Unheeded,  o  er  our  silent  dust 

The  storms  of  life  shall  beat. 

Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane. 

The  vital  spark  shall  lie. 
For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  rise 

To  see  its  kindred  sky. 

These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust. 

Our  Father's  care  shall  keep. 
Till  the  last  angel  rise,  and  break 

The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 

Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 

Shall  shed  its  mildest  ray*^. 
And  the  long-silent  dust  shall  burst 
AVith  shouts  of  endless  praise. 


HYMN  IV. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Much  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe. 
Onward,  Christians,  onward  go. 
Fight  the  fight,  and  worn  with  strife. 
Steep  with  tears  the  bread  of  life. 


Onward,  Christians,  onward  go, 
Join  the  war,  and  face  the  foe ; 
Faint  not!  much  doth  yet  remain, 
Dreary  is  the  long  campaign. 

Shrink  not.  Christians  ;  will  ye  yield  ? 
Will  ye  quit  the  painful  field  ? 


HYxMN  V. 

Christians  !  brethren !  ere  we  part, 
Join  every  voice  and  every  heart ; 
One  solemn  hymn  to  God  we  raise. 
One  final  song  of  grateful  praise. 

Christians !  we  here  may  meet  no  more. 
But  there  is  yet  a  happier  shore ; 
And  there,  released  from  toil  and  pain, 
Brethren,  we  shall  meet  again. 

Now'  to  God,  the  Three  in  One, 
Be  eternal  glory  done : 
Raise,  ye  saints,  the  sound  again : 
Ye  nations,  join  the  loud  Amen. 


HYMN. 


In  Heaven  we  shall  bo  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure  the 
splendors  of  the  Deity. 


Awake,  sweet  harp  of  Judah!  wake, 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake  ; 
We  sing  the  Savior  of  our  race. 
The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding-place. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  f()r  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
\Vhere,  where,  oh  where,  shall  man  retire, 
To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 

'T  is  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly, 
W^hile  the  dread  tempest  passes  by; 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved"s  face. 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding-place. 

Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene. 
The  Lamb  is  our  tnifailing  screen ; 
To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
An^  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 

While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below. 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow  ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean — a  sentenced  race. 
We  deeply  need  a  luding-place. 

Yet  courages-days  and  years  will  glide, 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside  ,• 
Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood. 
And  wash'd  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 

Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed. 
We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed ; 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding-place. 

The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporaneously 
one  summer  evening,  when  the  author  was  with  a  few  friends 
on  the  Trent,  and  singing  it  as  ho  was  us^:d  to  do  on  such  oc 
casions. 

484 


I 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


45 


A  HYMN 
FOR  FAMILY  WORSHIP. 

O  Lord  !  another  day  is  flown, 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

And  wilt  Thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 

To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
Thou  wilt!  for  Thou  dost  love  to  hear 

The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  wilt  deign, 

As  we  before  thee  pray ; 
For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 

And  we  are  less  than  they. 

O  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part. 

And  let  contention  cease  ; 
And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 

Thine  everlasting  peace ! 

Thus  chasten'd,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led  ; 
The  sun  of  holiness  shall  shine. 

In  glory,  on  our  head. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet. 
And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way; 

Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
From  every  host,  from  every  gem: 

But  one  alone  the  Savior  speaks. 
It  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode. 

The  storm  was  loud — the  night  \^■as  dark. 
The  ocean  yawn'd — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark. 

Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 

When  suddenly  a  star  arose, — 
It  was  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  ray  all. 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall. 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

Now  safely  moor'd — my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

For  ever  and  for  evermore 

The  Star.'  -The  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 
2Q2 


A  HYMN. 

O  Lord  !  my  God,  in  mercy  turn. 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn ! 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 

0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die ! 

1  strove  against  thee.  Lord,  I  know, 

I  spurn'd  thy  grace,  I  niock'd  thy  law; 
The  hour  is  past — the  day  '.s  gone  by, 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 

0  pleasures  past !  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ? 
Sceptres  that  hover  round  my  brain. 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul  : 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now,  Vengeance !  smile — and  with  a  blow 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 

Yet  Jesus,  Jesus  !  there  I'll  cling, 

1  '11  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing  ; 
I'll  clasp  the  cross,  and,  holding  there, 
E  ven  rae,  oh  bliss !  his  wrath  may  spare 


MELODY 

INSERTED  IX  A  COLLECTION  OF  SELECTED  AND  ORIGIN 
AL  SONGS,  PUBLISHED  BY  THE  REV.  J.  PLUMPTRE,  OF 
CLARE-HALL,  CAMBRIDGE. 

Yes,  once  more  thai  dying  strain, 
Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me  ; 

Sweet,  when  Pity's  tones  complain, 
Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 

While  the  Virtues  thus  enweave 
Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 

Winter's  long  and  lonesome  eve 
Glides  unfelt,  unseen,  along. 

Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away. 
And  the  wintry  night  is  near, 

Thus  shall  Virtue's  friendly  ray 
Age's  closing  evening  cheer. 


SONG.— BY  WALLER. 

A  Lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  the  author,  and 
when  he  returned  them  to  her,  she  discovered  an  additional 
stanza  written  by  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  Song  here  copied. 


Go,  lovely  Rose ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  rae, 

That  now  she  knows. 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died 
485 


46 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


1 


Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 
I  Tow  small  a  part  in  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 


[Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise ; 

And  teach  the  Maid 
That  Goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies.] 

H.  K.  White. 


•I  AM  PLEASED,  AND  YET  I'M  SAD.' 

When  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
I  at  my  study-window  sit, 
And,  rapt  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 

And  I  am  inly  glad, 
Tlie  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye. 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I  'm  sad. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray, 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan, 

Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top. 

Must  bend  my  lonely  way  ? 
No,  surely  no !  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air, 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh,  no  I  oh,  no  I  for  then  forgiven 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  Heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I  'm  glad ; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye, 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore,  I  am  sad. 


It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  an  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam. 
When  the  Ured  hedger  hies  him  home , 
Or  by  the  vcood land's  pool  to  rest. 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs 
With  hallow'd  airs  and  symphciiies. 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead. 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed ; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  \-\'ail 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I  've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free. 
And  vihen  I  sigh  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too  ; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision 's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love. 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer. 
Affection's  voice,  affection's  tear, 
Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 

0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill, 
And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  still ; 
When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 

1  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear, 

And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh 
For  Love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh, 

0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode. 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  divine. 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
Let  blest  Philosophy  impart 

Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart  ; 
And  while  with  Plato's  ravish'd  ears 

1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore, 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone, 
Nor  thiiik  that  I  am  all  alone. 


SOLITUDE. 


It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low. 
That  bids  the  silent  tear  to  flow : 


Fanny  I  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie  ! 

Fanny,  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak ! 
Where  art  thou,  love  ? — Around  I  turn  my  eye, 

And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ? — Methought  the  breath 
Fann'd  not  her  bloodless  lip;  her  eye  was  cold 

And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 
Invested  her  pale  forehead — Sainted  maid  ! 

My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave 

Through  the  long  wintiy  night,  when  wind  and 
wave 
Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 

4a(> 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


Yet  hush  !  my  fond  heart,  hush  !  there  is  a  shore 
Of  better  promise ;  and  I  know,  at  last. 
When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 

We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ — to  part  no  more. 


FRAGMENTS. 

These  Fragments  are  the  author's  latest  compositions;  and 
were,  for  the  most  part,  written  upon  the  back  of  his  mathe- 
matical papers,  during  the  few  moments  of  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  in  which  he  suffered  himself  to  follow  the  impulse  of  his 
genius. 

I. 

Saw'st  thou  that  light  ?  exclaim'd  the  youth,  and 

paused  : 
Through  yon  dark  firs  it  glanced,  and  on  the  stream 
That  skirts  the  woods  it  for  a  moment  play'd. 
Again,  more  hghl  it  gleam'd, — or  does  some  sprite 
Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams. 
And  lamp  far-beaming  through  the  thicket's  gloom, 
As  from  some  bosom'd  cabin,  where  the  voice 
Of  revelry,  of  thrifty  watchfulness. 
Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 
No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes, — the  beam  now  glows 
With  steady  lustre.    Can  it  be  the  moon. 
Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil 
That  blots  the  Heavens,  now  sets  behind  the  woods? 
No  moon  to-night  has  look'd  upon  the  sea 
Of  clouds  beneath  her,  answer'd  Rudiger, 
She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymion. 


II. 

The  pious  man 
In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veil'd 
With  intervening  vapors;  and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkens  all; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  conceal'd, 
The  glaring  simbeams  play. 


HI. 

Lo!  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  grey. 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes, 
And  from  his  tower  of  mist. 
Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 


IV. 

There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile ; 

It  perch'd  upon  a  ruin'd  pinnacle, 

And  made  sweet  melody. 

The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful,  and  most  clear, 

For  other  note  none  swell'd  the  air  but  his. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  little  chorister. 

Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile. 

Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind. 

Yet  withal  cheerful. — I  have  heard  the  note 

Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 

Much  musing — 


V. 

0  PALE  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 
Thy  melancholy  ray  : 

When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 
Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf-embower'd. 
Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam, 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room. 
Casts  a  chequer'd  twilight  gloom  ; 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looLs  so  mildly  sweeL 

Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 
Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me.  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards! 
Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeduig  crowd ; 
So  mournfidly  composed,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far. 
From  the  rude  w  atch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave 


VI. 

O  GIVE  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 

I  am  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 

That  may  the  spirit  Irom  its  cell  unsphere. 

Hark  how  it  falls !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve. 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave. 

Mellow  and  many-voiced  ;  where  every  close. 

O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflovvs 

O !  I  am  rapt  aloft.    My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 
Lo!  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 

And  floating  pseans  fill  the  buoyanf  wind. 
Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed 
Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs — 


VII. 

Ah!  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view, 
Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  He! 
Ah !   who  can  give  to  others'  woes  his  sigh. 

Secure  his  own  will  never  need  it  too  ? 

Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  wiih  thoughtful  eye 
The  illusive  past,  and  dark  futurity; 

Soon  will  they  know — 


VIII. 
And  musf  thou  go,  and  must  we  part? 

Yes.  fiUe  decrees,  and  I  submit ; 
The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  he;;rl 

Oh,  Fanny,  dost  ihou  share  in  ill 
Thy  sex  is  fickle. — when  r.way. 

Some  happier  youth  may  win  thv — 
487 


48 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IX. 

SONNET. 

When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequer'd  past, 

(A  term  much  darken'd  with  untimely  woes), 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 
The  tear,  though  half  disown'd ; — and  binding  fast 
Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her,  she  robb'd  me  of  my  rest, 
When  that  was  all  my  wealth. — T  is  true  my  breast 
Received  from  her  this  wear}nng,  lingering  smart. 
Yet,  ah !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 

Though  wrong'd,  I  love  her — yet  in  anger  love. 
For  she  was  most  unworthy. — Then  I  prove 
Vindictive  joy ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleamS, 
Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible     *     *     * 
The  native  pride  of  my  much-injured  heart. 


When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream 

Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire. 
Spell-struck,  and  fill'd  with  many  a  wondering  dream, 

First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre. 
All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 

The  midnight  echo  with  a  spirit's  dirge, 
And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke. 

To  their  light  morrice  by  the  restless  surge. 
Now  to  my  sober'd  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 

Too  much     *     * 
The  vagrant  Fancy  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 

And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fdl. 


XI. 
flusH'D  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept 

The  low  and  pensive  wires, 

Robb'd  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 
Yes — it  is  still — the  lyre  is  still ; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke 

Hath  pass'd  away, — and  that  weak  hand  that  woke 
Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 

Yet  I  would  press  j'ou  to  my  lips  once  more, 
Ye  wild,  ye  withering  flowers  of  poesy  ; 

Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 
Mix'd  with  decaying  odors :  for  to  me 

Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy. 
As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native — 


XII. 

Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay; 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
O  thou  stern  spirit !  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell ! 
No'ing,  grey  chronicler  !  the  silent  years  ; 

I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete : 

Thou  spakest;  and  at  thy  feet 
The  universe  gave  way. 


TIME.— A  POEM. 


Tliis  poem  was  begun  either  during  the  publication  of  Clifton 
Grove,  or  shortly  afterwards.  The  author  never  laid  aside 
the  intention  of  completing  it,  and  someof  llie  detached  parts 
were  among  his  latest  productions. 


Genius  of  musings  !  who,  the  midnight  hour, 

Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild, 

Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower. 

Thy  dark  eye  fix'd  as  in  some  holy  trance , 

Or  when  the  volley'd  lightnings  cleave  the  air, 

And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 

Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-tower,  where  thy  lamp. 

Faint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 

And,  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmoved 

Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 

The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source, — 

Spirit,  attend  my  lowly  benison ! 

For  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 

The  solitary  lyre  ;  and,  borne  by  thee 

Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 

The  mysteries  of  Time ! 

Him  who,  august, 
Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashion'd, — ere  the  sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  display'd 
His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn. 
Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eye. 
Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity  ! 
Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity 
The  harp  of  desolation — ere  his  tones. 
At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain. 
And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep, 
Chaos,  his  sluggish  sentry,  and  evoked 
From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 

Chain'd  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh. 

Mere  mortal  man,  unpurged  from  earthly  dross, 

Cannot  survey,  with  fix'd  and  steady  eye. 

The  dim  uncertain  gidf,  which  now  the  Muse, 

Adventurous,  would  explore; — but,  dizzy  grown, 

He  topples  down  the  abyss. — If  he  would  scan 

The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 

His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 

His  only  certainty  and  resting-place  ; 

He  must  put  oflT  awhile  this  mortal  vest, 

And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness. 

To  heights  where  all  is  vision  and  surj.rise. 

And  vague  conjecture. — He  must  waste  by  night 

The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 

Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ; 

High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest. 

Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness, 

Where, compass'd  round  with  Nature's  wildestst apes. 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confest 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 

So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 
Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 
Tutor'd  the  heart  of  him,  who  now^  awakes, 
Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy. 
His  faint,  neglected  song — intent  to  snatch 
Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

488 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


4J) 


Of  poesy,  a  iDloom  of  such  a  hue, 
So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 
With  Truth's  severer  brow  ;  and  one  withal 
So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 
Of  many  winters, — rearing  its  meek  head 
In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather'd  it 
Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 
Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 
Given  studious  leisure,'  or  unbroken  thought, 
Such  as  he  owns, — a  meditative  man. 
Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 
Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er, 
Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din : 
From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturb'd 
With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.   For  me  the  day 
Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 
Of  stedfast  application,  but  which  leave 
.  ]Vo  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 
But  be  the  day  another's  ; — let  it  pass  ! 
The  night's  my  own — They  cannot  steal  my  night! 
When  evening  lights  her  folding  star  on  high, 
I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 
Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies. 
Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 
And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for  heaven. 

Hence  do  I  love  the  sober-suited  maid ; 

Hence  Night 's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my  theme, 

And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 

The  night  of  ages, — now  when  the  pale  ray 

Of  star-light  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 

And,  at  my  window  seated,  while  mankind 

Are  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 

Of  stillness  blow",  while,  in  her  saddest  stole. 

Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine. 

Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 
Rests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
From  trouble  and  turmoil.   The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin-orphans  lie 
Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest. 
The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes ; 
The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless. 
His  griefs  unshared. — The  mother  tends  no  more 
Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but  surprised 
With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch. 
Dreams  of  her  bridals.    Even  the  hectic,  lull'd 
On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapt. 
Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering 

nurse. 
Poor  victim !  smiles. — Silence  and  deep  repose 
Reign  o'er  the  nations:  and  the  warning  voice 
Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 
The  general  moral ; — tells  us  that  repose. 
Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 
Is  coming  on  us — that  the  weary  crowds, 
Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm. 
Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapt  around 
With  grave-clothes  ;  and  their  aching  restless  heads 
Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved 
Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

\Vho  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 


What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hope 

But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows,  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise : — not  a  moment  Hits, 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'Tis  but  as  yesterday,  since  on  yon  stars, 

Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  shepherd '  gazed 

In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  buflfeted  mankind  ! — whole  nations  razed — 

Cities  made  desolate, — the  polish'd  sunk 

To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  stales 

Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts ; 

Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 

Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 

Of  grey  Tradition  vohible  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 

Who  flourish'd  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 

All  to  the  grave  gone  dowTi.   On  their  fallen  fame 

Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man. 

Sits  grim  Forgeifidness. — The  warrior's  arm 

Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame ; 

Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 

Of  his  red  eye-ball. — Yesterday  his  name 

Was  mighty  on  the  earth — To-day — 't  is  what  ? 

The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years. 

That  flash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 

Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 

Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 

Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 

Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 

Safe  in  the  chamel's  treasures. 

O  how  weak 
Is  mortal  man !  how  trifling — how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision  !  Pufl^^d  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality; 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day ! 
Dreams  of  eternal  honors  to  his  name ; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  etemitj% 

As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas  !  • 

Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point 

Too  trivial  for  accompt. 0,  it  is  strange, 

'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies  ! 
Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile, 
Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies, 
And  smile,  and  say.  My  name  shall  live  with  this 
Till  time  shall  be  no  more ;  while  at  his  feet, 
Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson.    He  should  know 
That  time  must  conquer ;  that  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 
Rear'd  its  huge  walls  ?  Oblivion  laughs,  and  says 
The  prey  is  mine.— They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man. 


1  The  author  was  then  in  an  attorney's  office. 

62 


1  AIluHing  to  the  first  astronomical  observations  maae  b 
the  Chaldean  shepherds. 


50 


KIRIvE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Their  memory  burst  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome  ? 
She  lives  but  iu  the  tale  of  other  limes ; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  tlie  hermit's  home, 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet, 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal'd,  her  honor'd  dust. 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin  ;  cities  numberless. 
Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Phoenicia — they  are  blotted  out, 
Ilalf-razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  behig  in  dispute. — Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
Is  polisli'd  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  ignorance  and  sloth  I  and  shall  we  dare 
*  *  *  * 


And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 

Where  now  is  Britain  ? — Where  her  laurell'd  names, 

Her  palaces  and  halls?    Dash'd  in  the  dust. 

Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride. 

And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

To  primitive  barbarity. — Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 

Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings, 

And  the  scared  native  to  the  tempest  howls 

The  yell  of  deprecation.   O'er  her  marts, 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence ;  and  the  cry 

Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 

Even  as  the' savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitols,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

I'rora  the  dismaying  solitude. — Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  halh  pensh'd  ; 

And  their  wild  harps,  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 

Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy, 

Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance 

Some  bold  adventurer,  fill'd  with  golden  dreams, 

Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes. 

Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  danng  prow 

Halh  ever  plow'd  before, — espies  the  cliffs 

Of  fallen  Albion. — To  the  land  unknown 

He  journeys  joyful ;  and  perhaps  descries 

Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness  ; 

Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 

Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arrived 

At  silence  in  that  sohtary  nook. 

Far  from  the  civil  world ;  and  sagely  sighs, 

And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt. 

Moves  on  our  being.    We  do  live  and  breathe, 

And  we  are  gone.   The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 

We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness ; 

And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds. 

To  perish  likewise. — Meanwhile  Nature  smiles — 

The  seasons  run  their  round. — The  sun  fulfils 

His  annual  course — and  Heaven  and  earth  remain 

Still  phanging,  yet  unchanged — still  doom'd  to  feel 

Knd'itfss  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 

Where  are  conceal'd  the  days  which  have  elapsed  ? 


Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past, 
They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal. 
By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images, 
Mistv,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch. 

When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave. 

And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  high 

Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  th'3  hour 

Of  utter  silence  ! — it  is  fearful  then 

To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude. 

Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability ; 

To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past, 

And  turn  the  key  of  Time  1 — Oh  !  who  can  strive 

To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 

Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 

And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 

Of  human  impotence  ?   The  life  of  man 

Is  summ'd  in  birth-days  and  in  se{)ulchres : 

But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beginning ; 

He  halh  no  end.    Time  had  been  with  him 

For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 

Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness. — Like  him 

It  knew  no  source,  like  him  't  was  uncreate. 

What  is  it  then  ?   The  past  Eternity ! 

We  comprehend  a  future  without  end  ; 

We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 

May  roll  for  ever :  but  we  shrink  amazed — 

We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 

Knew  no  commencement ; — that  heap  age  on  age 

And  million  upon  million,  without  end. 

And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 

That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 

The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth, 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  't  is  an  elapse 

Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 
To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Further  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time, — mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation; — centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries. — Time  past,  and  Time  to  come. 
Are  always  equal  ;  when  the  world  began, 
God  had  existed  from  eternity. 


Now  look  on  man 
Myriads  of  ages  hence. — Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
Where  once  we  stood  ? — The  same  eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come ; 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours. 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened  ; 
For  w  ho  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum. 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end  ? 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confest 
Foohsh,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
Of  finite  beings  to  infinity  ? 

490 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 

Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 

Scoop'd  out  by  human  art;  or  bid  the  whale 

Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in  I — Can  the  less 

Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 

fnfold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 

What  does  Philosophy  impart  to  man 

But  undiscover'd  wonders  ? — Let  her  soar 

Even  to  her  proudest  heights — to  where  she  caught 

The  soul  of  iVewton  and  of  Socrates, 

She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 

And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 

In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathora'd  depths. 

Lol  the  unletter'd  hind,  who  never  knew 

To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 

Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 

On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 

What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring. 

And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 

That  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening  sky, 

Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  A'ature  rouse 

The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 

The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 

Tiironed  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 

Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 

Tiiat  floats  through  neighboring  copso  or  faiiy  brake, 

Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 

Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire. 

Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 

And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon  ; 

Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 

Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 

The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 

For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys  : 

Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 

Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 

A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 

Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path. 

He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 

He  hears  some  village-mastiff's  dist&nt  howl. 

And  sees,  far  streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light  ; 

Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes. 

And  clasps  his  shivering  hands  ;  or,  overpower'd, 

Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh'd  down  with  sleep, 

From  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 

Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 

And  glowing  gratitude, — he  turns  to  bless. 

With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God ! 

And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 

Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 

In  want  and  labor,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 

To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 

Whom  starry  science  in  her  cradle  rock'd, 

And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews, 

Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  word, 

And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 

Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity. 

And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 

What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 

Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 

A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 

Against  his  Maker's  will  ? — The  Polygar, 

Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  hira 

Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys. 

Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men  I — O!  I  would  walk 


A  weary  journey,  to  the  furthest  verge 

Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  h?Jid, 

Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 

Preserves  a  lowly  mind ;  and  to  his  God, 

Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness, 

Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?  E'en  as  the  mists 

Of  the  grey  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 

That  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 
Are  hut  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour  ; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower. 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'T  is  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud. 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  school-boy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride. 
And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 
Its  stated  eras  I  Doth  the  Omnipotent 
Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 
There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 
Throned  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present; 
He  halh  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come ; 
He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 
Time  moveth  not  I — our  being  't  is  that  moves  : 
And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  sti-eam. 
Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 
Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days  : 
So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark. 
Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while, 
Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas ! 
Are  the  illusions  of  this  Proteus  life; 
All,  all  is  false:  through  every  phasis  still 
'T  is  shadouy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
The  semblances  of  things  and  specious  shapes ; 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way, 
As  we  on  its  appearances. 

On  earth 
There  is  nor  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 
Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
Where  storm  and  darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
To  expectation  of  serener  sides. 
And  hnger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death. 
Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening,    ^ 
Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage ; 
As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 
To  permanent  delight — from  some  slight  glimpse 
Of  shadowy  unsubstantial  happiness. 
The  good  man's  hope  is  Is^d  far.  far  beyond 
The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 
Of  mortal  desolation. — He  beholds. 
Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 
Of  rampant  ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 
Of  dark  vicissitude. — Even  in  death, 
In  that  dread  hour,  when  with  a  giant  pang. 
Tearmg  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart, 

491 


52 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free, 

Tlicn,  even  then,  that  iiope  forsakes  him  not, 

for  it  exists  beyond  llie  narrow  verge 

Of  the  cold  sepulchre. — The  petty  joys 

Of  ileeting  life  indignantly  it  spurn'd, 

And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope ; 

And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish'd  in  the  breast, 

Shall  not  be  disappointed. — Even  he. 

The  Holy  One — Almighty — who  elanced 

The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way, 

Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good. 

And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats. 

Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 

Thou,  proud  man !  look  upon  yon  starry  vault, 

Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud 

The  jNight's  imperial  chariot; — telescopes 

Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 

Than  the  sea-sand  ; — each  of  those  little  lamps 

Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 

Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 

Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  slock'd 

With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 

Now,  proud  mani  now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled  ? 

What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 

Less,  less  than  nothing ! — Yet  of  thee  the  God 

Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 

As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 

The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 

Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 

His  heavenly  providence?  Deluded  fool! 

Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  wing'd  with  death, 

Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 

How  iasignificant  is  mortal  man, 

Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour; 

How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 

Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space ! 

God  of  the  universe  !  Almighty  one  ! 

Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds. 

Or  with  the  storm,  thy  rugged  charioteer, 

Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 

Ridest  from  pole  to  pole ;  Thou  who  dost  hold 

The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp. 

And  reinest-in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  w-rath 

Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 

To  Thee  my  parting  paean :  for  of  Thee, 

Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 

Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 

Of  Thee  has  been  my  song — With  awe  I  kneel 

Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state, 

My  God  !  my  Father ! — I  will  sing  to  Thee  ! 

A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle, 

Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 

The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre. 

And  give  its  wild  springs  to  the  desert  gale. 

Rise,  Son  of  Saler     rise,  and  join  the  strain ! 

Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp. 

And,  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 

To  exultation.     Sing,  hqsanna  sing. 

And  hallelujah,  for  the  Lord  is  great 

And  full  of  mercy!  He  has  thought  of  man; 

Yea,   compass'd  round   vtith  countless  worlds,  has 

thought 
CJf  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 
Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noonday  sun. 
Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful : 


He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 

To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish ;  but  on  man 

He  lavish'd  immortality,  and  Heaven. 

The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower, 

And  mingles  w  iih  irrevocable  dust : 

But  man  from  death  springs  joyful. 

Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 

Oh  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon, 

The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestov  "d 

On  us  unworthy  triflers,  men  should  dare 

To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  profTer'd  Heaven, 

And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All-Just,  to  swear 

In  wrath,  "  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest  I" 

Might  I  address  the  supphcative  strain. 

To  thy  high  foot-stool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 

Wouidst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers. 

And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Him 

Thy  well-beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 

Bled  a  dead  sacrifice  for  human  sin. 

And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 

Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh !  I  shrink, 
My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
That  the  time  hastens,  when  in  vengeance  clothed, 
Thou  shall  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves. 
And  stormy  ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh!  how  dread, 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man, 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom, 
Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  Heaven ; 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar. 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend, 
Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word  ! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonish'd  from  their  sleep! 
The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey. 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 
Of  human  victims. — From  the  farthest  nook 
Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls, 
From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides. 
Is  wash'd  on  some  Caribbean  prominence. 
To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 
In  the  Pacific's  vast     *     *     *"    realm. 
Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 
The  wilderness  of  water  ;  they  shall  come 
To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 
Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints 
To  their  apportion'd  Heaven  I  and  thy  Son, 
At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 
On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 
He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 
Then  shalt  thou  seize  the  avenging  ciraeter, 
And,  with  a  roar  so  loud  and  horrible 
As  the  stem  earthquake's  monitory  voice. 
The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  aboae, 
Down  the  immitigable  gulf  to  wail 
And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 
*  *  *  *  .         *  * 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard,— Spirit,  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high ! — Invincible  and  throned 
In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 
Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 

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POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


53 


Sweep  headlong  to  destruction;  thou,  the  while, 

Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 

Of  mighty  generations  as  they  pass 

To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more. 

Who  shall  contend  with  Time — unvanquish'd  Time, 

The  conquerer  of  conquerors,  and  lord 

Of  desolation  ? — Lo !  the  shadows  fly, 

The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries. 

They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 

The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 

Heard'st  thou  that  shout !  It  rent  the  vaulted  skies ; 

It  was  the  voice  of  people, — mighty  crowds — 

Again!  'tis  hush'd — Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd; 

In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 

Unrufl3ed  solitude.     They  all  are  still ; 

All — yea,  the  whole — the  incalculable  mass, 

Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 

Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard — Spirit,  rear 

Thy  flag  on  high !  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 

But  dost  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come, 

When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 

Shall  tumble ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike, 

Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power  ; 

Vv^'hen  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Yea,  He  doth  come — the  mighty  champion  comes, 

Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death-woimd. 

Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors, 

And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 

Lo  !  where  he  cometh !  the  Messiah  comes ! 

The  King!  the  Comforter!  the  Christ! — He  comes 

To  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 

The  pow-er  of  Time. — Hark !  the  trumpet's  blast 

Rings  o'er  the  heavens! — They  rise,  the  myriads  rise — 

Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the 

chains 
Of  torpor — He  has  ransom'd  them,     *     *     * 

Forgotten  generations  live  again, 

Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  own'd  of  old. 

Beyond  the  flood  : — the  righteous  of  their  times 

Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 

The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 

Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave, 

And  heritor  with  her  of  heaven, — a  flower 

Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 

Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 

And  hark !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 

They  fall,  as  from  the  skies — at  distance  fall — 

Again  more  loud — the  ha'Uelujahs  swell : 

The  newly-risen  catch  the  joyful  sound  ; 

They  glow,  they  burn  ,•  and  now  with  one  accord 

Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 

Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 

Who  bled  for  mortals. 


Yet  there  is  peace  for  man. — ^Yea,  there  is  peace 
Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene  ; 
When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 
Haply  he  may  be  set  (in  his  late  walk 
O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 
Of  honeysuckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone, 
And  with  fixt  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 
The  solemn  shadows  of  the  Heavens  sail, 

2R 


And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 
Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose. 
Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life — from  noise 
And  tumult  far — beyond  the  flying  clouds. 
Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene, 
Where  change  shall  cease,  and  time  shall  be  no  more. 


THE  CHRISTIAD, 

A  DIVINE  POEM. 


Thi3  was  the  work  which  the  author  had  most  at  heart.  His 
riper  judgment  would  probably  have  perceived  that  the  sub- 
ject was  ill  chosen.  What  is  said  so  well  in  the  Censura 
Literaria  of  all  Scriptural  subjects  for  narrative  poetry,  ap- 
plies peculiarly «to  this.  "Any  thing  taken  from  it,  leaves 
the  story  imperfect ;  any  thing  added  to  it,  disgusts  and  al- 
most shocks  us  as  impious.  As  Omar  said  of  the  Alexan- 
drian Library,  we  may  say  of  suc^i  writings ;  if  they  contain 
only  what  is  in  the  Scriptures,  they  are  superfluous  ;  if  what 
is  not  in  them,  they  are  false." — It  may  be  added,  that  the 
mi.xture  of  mythology  makes  truth  itself  appear  fabulous. 

There  is  great  power  in  the  execution  of  this  fragment. — In 
editing  these  remains,  I  have,  with  that  decorum  which  it 
is  to  be  wished  ail  editors  would  observe,  abstained  from  in- 
forming the  reader  what  he  is  to  admire  and  what  he  is  not ; 
but  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying  that  the  two  last  stanzas 
greatly  affected  me,  when  I  discovered  them  written  on  the 
leaf  of  a  different  book,  and  apparently  long  after  the  first 
canto  ;  and  greatly  shall  I  be  mistaken  if  they  do  not  affect 
the  reader  also. — R.  Southey. 


BOOK  I. 


I  SING  the  Cross  ! — Ye  white-robed  angel  choirs, 
Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep, 

Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 

Were  wont  of  old  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend !  and  with  your  harpings  deep, 

Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 
Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep, 
Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 

And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious 
theme. 

II. 

Mourn !  Salem,  mourn !  low  lies  thine  humbled  state. 

Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levell'd  with  the  ground : 
Fallen  is  thy  pride  ! — Thine  halls  are  desolate  ! 

Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel's  sprightly 
sound. 

And  frolic  pleasures  tripp'd  the  nightly  round, 
There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely, — and  aghast 

Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 

Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste 


It  is  for  this,  proud  sAnw !  thy  towers 
Lie  crumbling  in  tlfl|||t ;  for  this  forlorn 

Thy  genius  wails  alongHf  desert  bowers. 
While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn. 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest-born: 

And  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 

Rose  on  his  fortunes — and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash  expire 

493 


64 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IV. 

Oh!  for  a  pencil  dipt  in  living  light, 
To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore  ! 

Oh  I  for  the  long-lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might, 

To  hymn  the  Savior's  praise  from  shore  to  shore, 
Wliile  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  paean  pour, 

And  Heaven  enraptured  lists  the  loud  acclaim! 
May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 

May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame  ? 
Oh !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name  ? 


Spirits  of  pity  !  mild  crusaders,  come  ! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float, 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb, 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note ! 

And  thou,  Urania !  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine. 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote, 
Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine. 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
Satan,  o'ercome,  fell  down;  and,  throned  there, 

The  son  of  God  confest,  in  splendor  shone ; 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air. 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 
*  *  *  * 

Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell — and  with  the  glare 
Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red, 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gather'd  round  his  head. 

VII. 

Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetae  adored,  he  bent 
Ilis  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky  state 

The  assembling  fiends  their  summon'd  troops 
augment. 

Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they  went ; 
While,  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe, 

The  Lapland  sorcerer  swell'd  with  loud  lament 
The  solitary  gale,  and,  fiU'd  with  fear, 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

vni. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude, 
Spreads  her  huge  tracks  and  frozen  wastes  around, 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude. 
Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 
Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 

The  smoke-frost  mutter'd :  there  drear  Cold  for  aye 
Thrones  him, — and,  fix'd  on  his  primeval  mound, 

Ruin,  the  giant,  sits  ;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  woe-struck  man  along  the  desert  way. 

IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 

No  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight  ; 
The  dancing  heart's^iM  in  an  instant  there 
Would  freeze  to  m^^B: — Mingling  day  and  night 
(Sweet  interchange,  wliich.  make^  our  labours 
light) 
Are  there  unknown ;  while  in  the  siiramer  skies 

The  sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly  height. 
Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies, 
And  leaves  the  long  bleak  ni^t  of  half  the  year  to 
rise 


'T  was  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake 
Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory, 

When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 
Messiah's  constancy, — and  thus  to  free 
The  powers  of  darkness  Irom  the  dread  decree 

Of  bondage  brought  by  him.  and  circumvent 
The  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 

The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  enibryo  pent. 
Discern  the  colors  clear  of  every  dark  event. 

XI. 
Here  the  stem  monarch  stay'd  his  rapid  flight, 

And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall. 
Hovering,  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light 
Wailing  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's  call 
He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall, 
Dropt  on  the  echoing  ice-     Instant  the  sound 

Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the  hall, 
Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound, 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan   they  siu-- 
round. 

XII. 
High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave, 

Prankt  with  rude  sliapes  by  the  fantastic  frost, 
Pie  stood  in  silence  ; — now  keen  thoughts  engrave 

Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-tost, 

He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 
Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute: 

So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast. 
Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute. 
Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute 

xin. 

At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  Divan 

The  arch-fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 

Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  began 
His  fierce  harangue  : — Spirits  !  our  belter  days 
Are  now  elapsed ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 

Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  Ijy  myriads  trod. 
Lo  I  the  light  breaks  I — The  astonish'd  nations 
gaze! 

For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod ! 
For,  spirits,  this  is  He, — this  is  the  Son  of  God ! 

XIV. 

What  then ! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear? 

Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 
Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear  ? 

Madness!  The  very  thought  would  make  me  fain 

To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain. 
And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker! — Fix'd  as  fate, 

I  am  his  Foe! — Yea,  though  his  pride  should  deign 
To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state, 
Still  would  I  burn  with  fixt,  unalterable  hate. 

XV. 

Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  curst  emprize  : 
When  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 

Buoy'd  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  disguise, 
To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
His  own  self  condemnation ;  in  the  plight 

Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness. 

Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight, 

And,  leaning  on  my  statf,  seem'd  much  to  guess 
What  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn 

494 


POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 


55 


XVI. 

.   thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 
.  lowlv  speech: — '-Good  sir,  what  leads  this  way 
wandering  steps?   Must  hapless  chance  be 
blamed 
■   lat  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 
rtere  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day, 
Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen;  but  how!  methought 
Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought." 

XVII. 
"  I  am  that  man,"  said  Jesus,  "  I  am  He  ! 

But  truce  to  questions — Canst  thou  point  my  feet 
To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 
In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 
With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat ; 
For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 

Hid  in  the  darli  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 
And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  fainting  ear 
Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gushing 
near." 

XVIII. 
Then  thus  I  answer'd  wily  : — "  If,  indeed, 

Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 
For  food  from  men  ? — Lol  on  these  flint  stones  feed, 
Bid  them  be  bread !   Open  thy  lips  and  speak, 
And  h  ving  rills  from  yon  parch'd  rock  will  break." 
Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Fix'd  on  my  fxce  ; — the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 
'^  :•.  :'d  not  bear  his  gaze !  my  mask  slipp'd  by ; 
■••"•     ■  :  have  shunn'd  his  look,  but  had  not  power  to  fly. 

XIX. 
he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word — 
:ursed  sounds !  but  now  my  native  pride 
.        a'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterr'd, 
ore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side, 
to  the  summit,  where,  extending  wide 
Kni^aoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes, 

Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried; 
And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 

XX. 

"  Behold,"  I  cried,  "  these  glories !  scenes  divine  ! 
Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays ; 
And  these,  O  rapture !  these  shall  all  be  thine, 
If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 
Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 

Oh !  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding  ways  : 
Seize  the  tiara !  these  mean  weeds  disdain. 
Kneel,   kneel,   thou   man  of  woe,  and    peace  and 
splendor  gain." 

XXI. 
"  Is  it  not  written,"  sternly  he  replied, 

"Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God?"  FrowTiing  he 
spake, 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide. 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake. 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake. 
The  s'delong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 

And  smote  me  earthward. — Jove  himself  might 
quake 
■>'  suh  a  fall:  my  sinews  crack'd,  and  near 
01 ,         and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine  ear. 


XXII. 

Senseless  and  stunn'd  I  lay :  till,  casting  round 
My  half-unconscious  gaze,  1  saw  the  foe 

Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below. 

While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sunbeam, 
Sweet  on  the  enamour'd  zephyr  was  the  flow 

Of  heavenly  instruments.    Such  strains  oft  seem. 
On  star-light  hill,  to  sootlie  the  Syrian  shepherd's 
dream. 

xxin. 

I  saw  blaspheming.  Hate  renew'd  my  strength  ; 
1  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing. 

And  left  the  accursed  scene. — Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers !  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.    Hell's  haughty  king 

Thrice  vanquish'd,  baffled,  smitten  and  dismay'd! 

0  shame!  Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while,  array'd 

High  o'er  the  walls  of  light,  rebellion's  banners  play'd 

XXIV. 

Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph  long 
Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge. — O  glorious  sight 
Proplietic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng. 

1  see  wild  Agony's  lean  finger  write 

Sad  figures  on  his  forehead ! — Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns !    Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears, — immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo !  he  retires  to  mourn  ! — I  hear  his  cries ! 
He  faints — he  falls — and,  lo  I — 'tis  true,  ye  powers 
he  dies. 

XXV. 
Tlius  spake  the  chieftain, — and,  as  if  he  view'd 
The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced 
And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood. 
While  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced 
With  straining  eye-ball  fix'd,  like  one  entranced, 
On  viewless  air; — thither  the  dark  platoon 

Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there 
danced 
The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darken'd  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks. — The  breeze 
Spake  most  distinctly.    As  the  sailor  stands. 

When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas 
Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 

The  ocean-farer's  life ;  so  stiff — so  sear 

Stood  each  dark  power; — while  through  thetr 
numerous  bands 

Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear 


Xj|fl|k 

hwsilencei, 


One  there  was  there,  vpSSlSMdefying  tongue 
Not  hope  nor  fear  hwsilence^,  but  the  swell 

Of  over-boiling jAce.    c|hi"^"c  lo"o 

His  passion  i^H'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
His  laboring  i^^  still  syllable  none  fell 

From  his  paJ^uivering  lip ;  but  died  away 
For  very  rtif ;  from  each  hollow  cell 

Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray. 
And  ***** 

495 


56 


KIRKE  WHITE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVIII. 

•'  This  comes,"  at  length  burs-t  from  the  furious  chief, 
"  This  comes  of  distant  counsels !  Here  behold 
The  fruits  of  wily  cunning  I  the  relief 
Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold, 
To  soothe  the  powers  that  warr'd  with  Heaven 
of  old ! 
O  wise  I  O  potent  I  O  sagacious  snare ! 

And,  lo !  our  prince — the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air. 
While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her 
standard  there." 

XXIX. 

Here,  as  recover'd,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker ;  dark  it  was  and  stern : 
He  wrapt  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily. 

And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts 
concern. 

Him  Moloch  mark'd,  and  strove  again  to  turn 
His  soul  to  rage.    "  Behold,  behold,"  he  cried, 

"The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions  spurn. 
Almighty  rule — behold,  he  lays  aside 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  defied." 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  (burning)  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  (mad)  to  quench  its  heat 

In  slaughter.    So,  his  native  wilds  among. 

The  famish'd  tiger  pants,  when,  near  his  scat, 
Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's  feet. 

Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 
Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung;  but  toward  the  seat 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord, 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 


Ye  powers  of  Flell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved  this 
of  old.  Who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies  of 
Jehovah  ?  Who  coped  wdth  Ithunel  and  the  thunders 
of  the  Almighty  ?  Who,  when  stunned  and  confused 
ye  lay  on  the  burning  lake,  who  first  awoke  and 
collected  your  scattered  powers?  Lastly,  who  led 
you  across  the  unfathomable  abyss  to  this  delightful 
world,  and  established  that  reign  here  which  now 
totters  to  its  base  ?  How,  therefore,  dares  yon  treach- 
erous fiend  to  cast  a  stain  on  Satan's  bravery  ?  he 
who  preys  only  on  the  defenceless — who  sucks  the 
blood  of  infants,  and  delights  only  in  acts  of  ignoble 
cruelty  and  unequal  contention.  Away  with  the 
boaster  who  n(;ver  joins  in  action,  but,  like  a  cormo- 
rant, hovers  over  the  field  to  feed  upon  the  wounded, 
and  overwhelm  the  dying.  True  bravery  is  as  remote 
from  rashness  as  from  hesitation ;  let  us  counsel  coolly, 
but  let  us  execute  our  counselled  purposes  deterrai- 
nately.  In  power  we  have  learnt,  by  that  experiment 


• 


which  lost  us  Heaven,  that  we  are  inferior  to  the 
Thunder-bearer :  In  subtlety — in  subtlety  alone  we 
are  his  equals.    Open  war  is  impossible. 


Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  conqueror,  through  the 
race 
Which  as  himself  he  loves ;  thus  if  we  fall, 
We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 
Of  falling  unrevenged.   The  stirring  call 
Of  vengeance  rings  within  me !  Warriors  all, 
The  word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair. 
Away  the  coward  wiles ! — Death's  coal-black 
pall 
Be  now  our  standard ! — Be  our  torch  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired !  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  air 

Him  answering  rose  Mecasphim,  who  of  old, 
Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 

Was  w^orshipp'd,  God  of  Fire,  with  charms  utJtold 
And  mystery.    His  wandering  spirit  roves, 
Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves. 

And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire 
Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant 
cloves 

And  cinnamon  upheap'd  the  sacred  pyre. 
And  nightly  magi  w-atch'd  the  everlasting  fire. 

He  waved  his  robe  of  flame,  he  cross'd  his  breast 
And  sighing — his  papyrus  scarf  survey'd, 

Woven  with  dark  characters ;  then  thus  address'd 
The  troubled  council : 

I. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre  which  I  in  early  days  have  st-ung; 

And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hang 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er. 
Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard 
no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  reanimate  the  lay  ? 
Oh !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men. 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way. 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee. 
Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  free 


496 


THE  END. 


^N  INITIAL  ^NE  OF  f  .f  S 

OVERDUE. 


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_C£U-23i^ii^^ 


LD21-100m-7.'*»'«936s) 


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OS  5 


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